answer my urgent texts, I really have no choice but to go to his house and make him listen to me, face-to-face. If it’s true that Jek’s name was on that receipt, then this guy Hyde could be running some kind of scam: hacking, identity theft or maybe something even worse. Jek’s not great with that kind of computer stuff—if it wasn’t for me, he’d leave all his databases unprotected and vulnerable to attacks.
* * *
I pull up outside Jek’s house and notice that shadows are gathering on the columns and gables of the sprawling houses on this side of town. It’s around 5:00 p.m. and sunset is almost an hour off, but the sky is already low and threatening, and lights are coming on across the neighborhood to ward off the darkness of an encroaching storm—a reminder that London’s sunny, warm season has truly ended and we’ll be in the thick of winter soon.
When I was a kid, the winters in London were snowy and bright. I’d wake up to the whole countryside under a smooth white blanket, and Jek and I would go out and pelt each other with snowballs as the sun sparkled against the landscape. We haven’t had a winter like that in years, though. Instead, November to March brings nothing but a dark, gritty rain and heavy pea soup fogs that have an almost brownish cast to them. Some people say this is all part of some top secret London Chem experiment gone wrong, but others say it’s just a normal part of the same global warming that’s affecting everyone. Either way, it will be months before we see real sunshine again.
Up on the hill above Jek’s house, the curving structures of Donnelly and Lonsanto are barely visible, their reflective surfaces blending in with the roiling clouds. I step out of the car and pull my jacket tight against a sharp wind that rattles dead leaves still clinging to the once-lush trees. I’m still not entirely used to visiting Jek here. Up until last year, he lived with his mom, Puloma, off Main Street in a smallish condo cozily decorated in a hodgepodge of styles: posters for old rock shows mixed with tin-and-brass trinkets, colorful silk cushions tossed over rickety chairs and benches. Puloma hired my mom as her cleaning lady back when they first moved to town, and I used to play with Jek while our moms worked—that’s how we became friends. I still remember waking up there after sleepovers, his mom making us breakfast of masala dosa while we watched cartoons.
Then last year Puloma married Tom Barrow, one of the other London Chem scientists, after a whirlwind romance, and she and Jek moved to this house where Tom lives with his three interchangeable blond sons, all somewhere between seven and eleven years old. Their house is much bigger than the old condo, and looks about as bland as all the other houses on the cul-de-sac. The only difference between this house and its neighbors is the addition that extends out from the back and down the hill a bit—originally built for Tom’s former mother-in-law and where Jek lives now. This space, connected to the rest of the house by a short flight of stairs, was Puloma’s main bargaining chip in getting Jek to go along with her new marriage—she promised him that he could turn the apartment’s kitchen into his own personal laboratory. Tom doesn’t exactly approve of him having so much freedom and autonomy, but Puloma has always had a soft spot when it comes to Jek, and she doesn’t let Tom interfere.
I cross the lawn to the side door that opens directly into Jek’s apartment. The addition isn’t really visible from the street, so Tom and Puloma have let the upkeep slide a little: the paint is peeling, and you can see broken blinds through the windows, whereas the rest of the house has pretty lace curtains. The porch light was knocked out a few months ago by a stray baseball from the kids’ afternoon game of catch and no one has bothered to fix it, so the side door remains in heavy gloom even when the rest of the house is cheerfully lit.
I’m almost to the door when it opens and a figure steps out into the thickening darkness. I start to call out a greeting, but my voice dies in my throat when I realize it’s not Jek. The figure startles a little at my cutoff cry.
“Sorry,” I say, stepping into the light cast by the doorway. “I thought you were... I’m looking for Jek.”
The silhouetted figure regards me a long moment, a curious tilt to his head. “You’ve just missed him,” he says lightly. “I can give him a message, if you like.” His voice is husky and low, with a lingering softness on every S. He’s backlit by the open door behind him so I can’t see him well, but there’s something about him that nonetheless feels off—the way he talks, or holds himself, or the strange breathiness of his voice. Or maybe it’s the way he smells: a hint of citrus carried over by the wind, not unpleasant, but flat and artificial, like detergent or air freshener.
“You’re Hyde, aren’t you?” I say, though I can’t explain what makes me so sure. He goes very still.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” he says after a pause.
“I’m Lulu,” I say. “Lulu Gutierrez.” I take a step toward him, my mind churning with curiosity. Those things Camila and Maia said about how odd he looked, beyond description, I have to see for myself. “Would you do me a favor?” I ask, stunned at my own daring. “Would you step into the light? I want to see your face.”
Hyde hesitates, and for a moment I think he’s going to laugh at my request, or get offended and tell me to get lost. I could hardly blame him if he did. But he surprises me.
“If you like,” he says, and he takes a step back over Jek’s threshold, letting the lamplight hit him directly.
I’m not quite surprised to discover it’s the boy who ran into me at the Halloween party, but I can’t help the gasp that escapes me now that I see him clearly. I can understand why Camila and Maia disagreed about his race—his features are hard to place. His eyes have a sleepy, heavy-lidded aspect that suggests an Asian background, and his skin has a sallow cast, though that could just be the light. His hair, though, falls in thick, dark curls and his nose has a slight bump to it that could be European or Middle Eastern, possibly.
None of that explains, though, why his face is so off-putting. There’s something unpleasant and alien about his looks, and I search him for what is producing this uncanny effect, like one eye set lower than the other or missing eyebrows, but I can’t put my finger on it. His features seem somehow out of proportion with each other—eyes too small, mouth too big, nose too prominent—but in the next moment the effect shifts, and it’s his chin that seems too sharp for a mouth too soft. Just like at the party, though, the most remarkable thing about him are his eyes—as black and unreflecting as the shadows settling around us.
I know it’s rude to stare, but Hyde doesn’t seem offended. He just stands calm and self-possessed before me, a smile twisting his lips as he waits for me to finish my examination. Then he steps outside again and tugs the door firmly shut, casting us both in darkness.
“Now,” he says, “return the favor and tell me how you knew me.”
I swallow against a mounting tremor in my voice before answering. “You were described to me,” I say. “We have friends in common.”
I can feel more than see Hyde’s sneer at this. “I’d be surprised,” he says softly, again teetering on the edge of a lisp. “What friends?”
“Well... Jek, for one,” I point out.
He stares at me coolly. “Jek never mentioned me to you.”
Even though I never quite claimed he had, I still feel called out by this statement. But it’s not like Hyde can know every conversation Jek and I have had. I shake off the creeping sensation Hyde is giving me and remind myself why I came here in the first place: to warn Jek about him.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I ask, my voice firmer now. “Alone at Jek’s place.”
“What’s it to you?” he replies, unperturbed. “If Jek doesn’t mind...”
“Sure,” I say with a shrug. “None of my business. But maybe I’ll make sure Jek actually knows you’re here.” I pull out my phone, but Hyde makes a sharp gesture before my thumb is even on the screen.
“No,” he says quickly. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
Even