A Writer’s Book of Days Exercise: Plans

A Writer’s Book of Days Exercise: Plans

“So what are you going to do?”

It should have been a simple question. It wasn’t. “Why’d you do it?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” Yes.

“So?”

“Damn it, I’m not going to drag you in there without knowing what the hell you were thinking.”

“It was ten years ago. I’ve been about two or three different people since then. Do you really think it’s going to make any sense?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I met your mother.”

That was apparently unexpected. The smirk left Denim’s face. “How is she?”

“Sad. Happy they haven’t found you, but confused. She couldn’t tell me much.” But she’d told him enough to start a theory. “You’re not as different as you think.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Not in the ways that matter.”

Denim slumped.

“Please, just tell me. That’s a hell of a lot of money, and they’re going to kill you for it.”

“They killed him.”

“Who?”

“My brother.”

Liev frowned. “Your mother said he shot himself.”

“He did.”

“So…”

“They were why. They should have known how he’d react, but they didn’t give a shit about any of the people working for them. As long as you churned out something profitable, it didn’t matter who you were. He’d worked there for eight years, gave them plans with all his hopes, and they still didn’t know what he’d do when they fucked him over.”

“He was working on a vaccine.”

“No, he was supposed to have started working on the vaccine the day after he died. Before that he’d been working on a cancer treatment that went very, very wrong.”

“What happened?”

“It became the virus that needed the vaccine.”

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