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families of the other Medusa babies – the families who were, right now, in a hotel just a few miles away. The families of Nico, Ed and Ketty.

 
5: The Hub
    The little mother-of-pearl box was concealed under a sweater in my backpack. I took it out carefully. All my stuff – and everyone else’s – had been left for a while at that hellacious training camp in Spain. It caught up with us eventually, but I hadn’t looked inside this box for ages.
    I was in the bedroom I shared with Ketty. She – and the others – were still out at the hotel with their families. I went over what Patrice had said, forcing myself to take an objective look at each set of parents in turn.
    Firstly Nico. His stepdad, Fergus, was certainly around at the time my dad died but, as my dad was Fergus’s brother, he didn’t seem a likely murder suspect. My dad had left the only copy of the Medusa gene formula with him, which meant he must have trusted him. Anyway, I couldn’t believe that Fergus, with his solemn eyes and straight-laced manner, was capable of murder.
    Ketty had been adopted long after my dad died. She’d never known her father – and her mother, like mine, was now dead. If either of her parents had been involved in my dad’s death, the trail would be well and truly cold by now.
    Which left Ed. His dad had been around at the time.
    Still, could he really be capable of murder?
    I couldn’t believe it. And I was even more certain that even if Ed’s dad was involved, Ed himself didn’t know anything about it.
    Patrice had just left. Geri was working in her office and Jez and Alex were watching TV downstairs. The light through the window was dying as I glanced outside my room to make sure I was alone and opened the box.
    It contained the few things of my parents that I owned. A white-gold necklace, with my mom’s name – Ashley – hanging from the chain. I guess I could’ve worn it. Ashley’s my middle name, after all, but something stopped me. I wore the wedding ring and the silver bangles, of course. There were a few photos, too – me and Mom and Dad. Dad had red hair and green eyes and a distracted look. Mom is much younger . . . and beautiful, with darker hair and pale, clear skin. Then there’s me. I had terrible skin when I was a baby, all red and raw. Apparently, I cried a lot then, too. I wish there were some pictures of me with my parents that I looked recognisable in. Or at least some photos where I didn’t look like the Devil Baby From Hell.
    I flicked through the other items – an old Mac lipstick . . . a tiny vial of perfume that had long since lost its scent . . . some papers, including copies of my parents’ marriage certificate and my birth certificate . . . and a little Tiffany appointments diary of my mom’s from the year Dad died.
    When Aunt Patrice first gave me the diary when I was about eleven, I pored over it for days, hoping for some insight into my mom’s personality. But it was just a collection of evening dates with my dad and lunches with friends, plus a bunch of beauty appointments. I guess Patrice wouldn’t have given it to me if it had reflected my mom’s actual state of mind. She’d explained, a year or so later, how my mom had been sick in the head when she died . . . how she hadn’t meant to do it . . . how it had been a cry for help . . .
    It had taken me a while to realise she was telling me my mom had killed herself out of grief over my dad. Now, with a sick jolt, I wondered if my mom’s fears that my dad had been murdered had driven her to suicide.
    I caught myself in the mirror . . . anxious-eyed. Maybe Mom and I had similar shaped faces, but that was about it. I used to hate my own colouring . . . the way it made me stand out everywhere. But more recently, I’d come to like looking different. I loved the way people often did a double take when I walked past.
    I turned to August in Mom’s Tiffany diary. My dad had died at the end of the month – after which, I already