"I need you to drop me off at the Umbrella building."
Wesker looked at her, robotic, his eyes red cursors beneath the tinted sunglasses. "You're not taking the samples to your home laboratory?"
"No," Alexia said, watching Wesker in her periphery, "I'm not." She brushed her fingers over the lid of the plastic container in her lap. "I don't keep a catalog in my home."
"You don't culture the mutamycete there?" he asked. "For the A-Types," he added, helpfully.
"Of course not," Alexia scoffed, leveling a sharp look at him. "I brought that research from NEST 3, and kept the sample-batch small and stable. I wanted to work on it while on maternity leave, but then The Connections stopped calling, and the project has mostly been sitting idle. I've been working on other things in the interim."
"My employers are having some internal problems, as I understand it," Wesker said, and paused. His phone rang. He reached into his blazer and took it out, flipping it open and holding it to his ear, listening. Then, after what had felt like an eternity, he said to the person on the other end, "Is that so?" Wesker paused, his mouth a thin, hard line. "I see," he said. "Keep digging." He snapped the phone shut, made it vanish behind a black lapel.
"Business?"
"I have a contact looking into a cult," Wesker said, and left it at that. "Unrelated, do you know anything about the Gionnes, Alexia? They seem like your people."
"Why not have your 'contact' dig into them?"
"She is," Wesker answered. "I'm simply trying to expedite the process."
"I don't know much about the Gionnes," Alexia said, and shrugged. "They're related to the Travis family, of TriCell fame. And, if memory serves, Alexander went to Harrow with one of the Travis lads and didn't have the highest opinion of him. But Alexander kept him close. After all, success is measured in the people you know."
Wesker parked in the parking garage. Alexia tucked the container in the crook of her arm and stepped out of the car. "Good luck," Wesker told her, watching her from the driver-side window. "Should you discover anything of note, do give me a call, Alexia."
"Don't count on it."
Wesker just smiled, vanishing behind the tinted window-glass. She watched him drive off, his tail-lights flashing down the ramp, then gone. Alone, the sodium lights humming overhead, Alexia turned, high-heels clicking sharply against the tarmac, and hurried to the nearby employee's lift, swiping her work ID and screwing her eyes against the harsh rake of the fluorescent lights. She punched the DOWN button with her thumb; the lift whirred, lurched down.
Several minutes passed as the lift descended, and when the doors finally opened, they opened to the lobby of NEST 3, where a tired secretary—Alexia didn't recognize the man, and suspected he'd been recently hired after the last round of lay-offs—sat behind a long counter on her right, his head lit from behind in a nimbus of red and white from the Umbrella logo mounted on the wall.
As she approached, the man bolted upright in his chair as if someone had just jammed a stick up his ass. He couldn't have been older than twenty-four, perhaps twenty-five. He wore a suit, had that nervous collegiate look she'd observed on the faces of the interns and junior researchers.
"Dr. Ashford," the man said. "I was told you were still on maternity leave."
"I've decided to come back a little early. How do you know my name?"
"They told me in orientation," the man said. Then, as if suddenly remembering something very important, he tapped something out on his computer, then slid a thin stack of papers toward her. "Just need you to fill these sheets out, ma'am."
"I don't have time for paperwork," Alexia said, pushing aside the forms. "Log me into the bloody system, or I'll fire you right here, right now."
"But I was told—it's protocol, ma'am. It's—you didn't give eight weeks' notice."
"Let her through." Scott walked over. He was dressed in a dark suit, looked a decade younger than she'd left him.
"Dr. Harman?" the man said.
"She's your boss," Scott said. "She'll sort it out with Spencer. Just log her in, and you'll be okay, kid."
The secretary opened and closed his mouth several times like a fish. Then, overwhelmed by two of his superiors telling him to disregard company protocol, he turned to his computer and tapped something out. "You're clear to enter, Dr. Ashford," he said, and looked absolutely relieved when they walked away.
"I have so many questions."
"I still have my Umbrella credentials, and that kid at the front-desk is new, so he didn't ask too many questions," Scott said, ambling alongside her, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his impeccably ironed trousers. He glanced at the container tucked under her arm, and said, "I'm here to answer your questions, princess. Most of them. That's the mutamycete in there, isn't it?"
"Are you finally going to tell me about Origin?"
"Mostly," Scott said, making a small adjustment to the knot in his tie. "Still some things I rather not say. Not yet. I couldn't even if I wanted to." He gave her a sad, apologetic look, and then opened the door to her laboratory with his employee code.
The decontamination protocol cycled, and, scrubbed of microbes and bacteria, they were admitted inside. No one was in the laboratory, but nobody ever was; Alexia loathed working in teams, so Spencer had allowed her some concessions. She had better things to do than micromanage a gaggle of know-nothing graduates, and senior staffers who hated taking orders.
Alexia set the container down on a counter of stainless steel, next to a row of tanks containing various T-Veronica specimens, and slipped into a lab coat. She walked into the adjacent room, where her desk and computer were, and sat down, watching Scott with an expectant look.
"Origin is a mycovirus," Scott began, pacing slowly. "A mycovirus modified with the Progenitor strain used in the Lisa Trevor trials. But rather than destroy the mold, it enhanced it. There were a lot of failures, princess. Rare cancers, for example. Mold replicated too quickly in mold-infected cells." He stopped pacing and wrung his hands, and swallowed nervously.
"Your heart," Alexia said.
Scott nodded. "I dosed myself with Origin." He paused, then said, "Or, rather, Miranda dosed me with Origin. She was my lab-partner, Alexia. For a short time. Interested in my research, you see." Scott frowned, running a large, paw-like hand back through his hair. "The goal was to make me like her," he told her. "It didn't work."
She listened, silent, motionless.
"Those pills you've been giving me are a refined version of what Miranda and I were working on back then," Scott continued, and resumed pacing her office-space. "Without regular, stable doses, however, my condition rapidly deteriorates. I was off the stuff for a few years, and my condition improved for a bit, but got worse around two years ago. And then it improved again with those tablets you gave me, but I hate taking the shit, Alexia." He heaved a sigh, and then, after an uncomfortable stretch of quiet, said, "I stopped Miranda that night on Misery Road."
"How did you know—"
"It doesn't matter how I knew," Scott said. "I can't tell you anyway. I'm not allowed. But I want to tell you, princess. God, I want to tell you everything."
Alexia frowned, stood up. "Will Grayson develop the same heart condition?" she asked, looking at him. "Will he die because of Origin?"
"No. Maybe," Scott said, grimacing. "Grayson was the success." He touched his chest where, just hours before, he'd sported a hole. "But there's always a margin for error, unforeseen variables. I can't tell you more than that, but I wish I could. I really wish I could, princess, I swear."
"Why can't you?" she demanded, striking her desk with the flat of her fist, making the Montblancs bounce in their pen rest. "Is someone blackmailing you, Scott?" Alexia asked sharply. "Is it Miranda?"
"I can't," Scott said, and she'd never seen him look so helpless, so desperate and sorry.
"Scott, you don't even have a heart anymore." Tears pricked her eyes, and though Alexia tried her hardest not to cry, a pathetic sob escaped her, and she felt ashamed, weak. "You're dead, Scott," she said, wiping at her cheek with the back of her hand. "I want to know what that bitch did to you. What she did to my Grayson."
"Grayson's not like me, princess," Scott said gently, and he hugged her and stroked her hair. Alexia felt like a helpless thirteen-year-old girl again, and cried into his shoulder, bunching Scott's shirt between her fingers.
Gradually, she felt her sadness subsumed by cold fury, and a desire for revenge. Alexia, recouping whatever dignity she could from her little breakdown, slipped away from him and said, "I'm going to kill her, Scott."
"Alexia."
"No," she said, and moved toward the container of mutamycete samples. The tears were gone; now, all Alexia felt was smoldering rage, and a raw hatred, like an old wound splitting open, she hadn't felt since Steve Burnside.
"Look," Scott said, "I don't want you doing anything stupid, Alexia. Not on my account." He frowned. "I'll bring the car around," he continued, like a negotiator urging the gunman to put the gun down. "I'll wait for you, and we'll go home together. Okay?"
"I'm going to be here for a while."
"That's okay," Scott said. "I'll wait."
"You need a ride home, Eva?" Grayson asked, clearing the pizza box off the coffee-table with one hand, holding a squirming, cooing Veronica with the other.
"No thanks, Mr. Harman," Eva said, gathering her notebook and textbook and stuffing them into her backpack. "I'll walk. It's okay."
"It's kinda late," he said, reasonably. "Wanna make sure you make it to your grandma's okay."
"I'll be fine," Eva assured him, and stood up. She turned to Sherry. "See you at school tomorrow, Sherry. And thanks for helping me with my lame report."
"No problem," Sherry said, and smiled. "You helped me with my math assignment. We're even."
"Oh, we still on for the sleepover next weekend?" Eva asked her. "My grandma wanted to know."
"It's okay, right?" Sherry asked, looking at him, pleading with her eyes. "I know mom's going to be in Washington D.C that weekend, but you can handle a couple of teenagers, right?"
"It's not like your mom would've been around to help me anyway," Grayson said, a little more bitterly than he'd meant to. Alexia had been spending a lot of time in her laboratory lately, or out on business with Albert Wesker.
Grayson knew he didn't really have a right to complain about infidelity, considering his own abysmal track record. But this was Alexia, and the thought of another man putting his hands on her made Grayson seethe in ways he never knew possible, made him feel a jealousy so intense that it burned. Wesker always came across as this strange sexless creature unconcerned with the banality of cunt. But things changed, people changed. Or maybe Wesker had always hid his deviancies behind that veneer of clinical indifference.
What bothered Grayson more, however, was that Alexia might reciprocate Wesker's advances, that she'd gotten bored of him and had moved on to greener pastures. Wesker was the sort of man she'd probably go for, Grayson decided. Cultured, intelligent, well-dressed. Conniving. Dangerous. Thrilling.
"You okay?" Eva asked, peering at him. "Look like you got lost in your head, Mr. Harman."
"I'm fine," he lied. "Sure. Sleepover's fine."
Eva grinned, then said to Sherry, "See you tomorrow. And looking forward to the sleepover!"
When Eva left, Sherry gave a him a concerned look, said, "Night, Grayson," and went upstairs.
Grayson threw out the pizza box, then carried Veronica to her bedroom and put her down to sleep. Upon reaching his and Alexia's bedroom, he stripped down to his boxers and sprawled out across the bed, face-down in the duvet, trying not to think about Wesker and Alexia, and what sounds she'd make while taking it from him.
Grabbing his pillow, he put it over his head as if it would shield him from the thoughts, and swore.
He must have dozed off at some point, because the next thing he knew, Grayson was jarred awake by the creak of the door, and light, unsteady footsteps weaving across the floorboards. Sliding the pillow off him, he raised his head and saw Alexia wobbling toward the bed, absolutely reeking of bourbon.
"You never drink bourbon," he said, though it came out as more of an accusation than a statement.
"Tonight I did, and a great deal of it," Alexia replied, and hiccuped, collapsing onto the bed and pawing for him. "I just want to cuddle, Grayson," she whined. "Please, no talking. Just cuddles. My head hurts."
"Were you with Wesker?" he asked.
She stared at him with a glazed expression, hiccuped. "I wasn't drinking with him," she said. "I can't stand Albert, darling. Why are we talking about him?" She held out her arms, waiting for him to fill them. "Cuddles," she said, pouting.
"Were you fucking him?" he asked matter-of-factly.
Alexia recoiled as if he'd struck her across the face. "What? No!" she said, aghast. "The only man I fuck is you. Speaking of which," and Alexia giggled, hooking her fingers in the waistband of his boxers and tugging ineffectually at them, unable to get them down his thighs. "I changed my mind. I want to fuck, and we can cuddle after."
"Alexia."
"Alexia this, Alexia that," she snapped, her tone curdling. "I've had an arduous day full of uncomfortable revelations," she continued, visibly frustrated. "Right now, all I want is my husband to fuck my brains out and make me forget everything, since the alcohol didn't help much in that regard. Is that so much to ask?"
There was something desperate in Alexia's eyes, and he felt ashamed. Something had happened today, and it had rattled Alexia to her core. "I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. Grayson hugged her tightly to his chest, and Alexia cried in heaving, ugly sobs.