Dominique enters the home. Sees the turned-over palm plant and magazine rack. Feels her skin tingling. ‘Evelyn?’

Evelyn’s library door is closed. Dominique creeps closer and listens. Hears the gurgling sound. Flexes her right biceps, activating the pain-cannon’s neurological trigger.

Dominique kicks the door open. ‘Evelyn! Oh my God—’

The dead woman’s face is purple, her limp, broken figure swaying from a makeshift noose tied to the overhead ceiling fan.

19

November 2, 2027
Miami, FL. (AP Internet Wire)

Former Secretary of State Pierre Robert Borgia was released today from a federal penitentiary in Miami after serving nearly fifteen years. Once considered a strong Republican candidate for president, Borgia was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder when he ordered the death of Michael Gabriel, the incarcerated mental patient who mysteriously died after helping prevent a nuclear holocaust back in December of 2012. ‘I’m an innocent man who served his country and was wrongly accused,’ Borgia told reporters moments after his release. ‘All I want now is to live out what few days I have in peace.’

NOVEMBER 4, 2027: MABUS MANSION, MANALAPAN, FLORIDA

4:17 p.m.

Pierre Borgia stares at his reflection in the bathroom smart glass. Prison life has trimmed forty pounds from his once stocky physique. His face is noticeably leaner, almost gaunt, his head cleanly shaven to hide the gray. The bandage over his right eye socket is new, the result of a recent inmate attack during his last month in the federal penitentiary.

‘We should get that eye looked at,’ says Lucien Mabus, the teen entering from the bedroom. ‘Once the swelling’s down, we’ll fit you with one of those new prosthetics.’

‘Waste of time and money. My life’s over.’ Borgia turns on the faucet. Washes his face.

‘Don’t say that. My father always said the party needs you.’

‘Where the hell was the party when Chaney had me carted off like a goddam animal? That nigger’s got the UN marching to the beat of his goddam drum. He’s also the one who killed your father.’

The nineteen-year-old nods. ‘Yeah. What’re we gonna do about that?’

‘I have a few ideas. Get dressed, kid, I’ll meet you downstairs.’

Borgia reaches for a sensory toothbrush. Brushes his teeth. On cue, a medical chart appears on the smart-glass mirror directly in front of him.

BLOOD PRESSURE AND CHOLESTEROL ARE HIGH.

ANALYSIS OF SALIVA INDICATES A BLEEDING ULCER. SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION IMMEDIATELY. HAVE A NICE DAY.

‘Damn know-it-all computers.’ Borgia dries his face, then reexamines the eye patch in the bathroom mirror.

Longboat Key, Florida 4:17 p.m.

Jacob stares wide-eyed into the bathroom’s smart-glass mirror, his reflection dissipating as his mind hitches a ride aboard another person’s wavelength.

Gaunt face.

Shaved head.

Eye patch … covering a wound created twenty-six years ago by his own father.

It’s Borgia … I’m remote-viewing Pierre Borgia!