Inheritance by Malinda Lo Page A

forget.” The window closed and the car drove away.
    A moment later Julian was at her side. “Who was that? What happened?”
    She told him and watched his eyes widen with shock.
    “No way,” he said. “Are you going?”
    “I don’t know. I can’t believe they followed me here.” She gazed down the street as the car turned off Haight and went out of sight. “How would they know where I am? We snuck out—I haven’t seen any men in black here. And who are they, anyway?”
    “They’re either better at tailing you than the MIBs or you have a tracking device implanted in you.” Julian gave her a grin that quickly died as he saw the stricken look on her face. “I didn’t mean that!”
    She fingered the hard edges of the business card, an unsettling dread rising in her. The Imria said they wanted to help her;the government wanted to prevent her from telling the truth; and now this Charles Lovick wanted—she didn’t know what he wanted, but she was pretty sure that if it was anything innocuous, he wouldn’t send a stranger in a town car to deliver the message in person. That told her that he—or his people—were following her.
    Julian spouted off various theories about who Lovick might be, but she didn’t pay attention. She was beginning to feel extremely pissed off. She was a citizen of the United States of America, and her very own government was making her feel like a criminal by tailing her and censoring her when she had done nothing wrong. Now this total stranger was trying to tell her what to do by ordering her to meet him as if she were his trained lapdog. It was ironic that the only people who seemed to be waiting for her to make her own decisions were those who had changed the fundamental components of who she was—her DNA—without her permission.
    She had to be honest with herself. She needed the information that the Imria were offering. If she rejected it simply because she was still torn up over Amber, she would wind up hating herself for being such a wimp.
    She pulled out her phone as Madison emerged from the store. “Hey!” she called brightly. “I’m done! Whoa, what’s wrong? It looks like somebody died.”
    Reese typed a text message to David as Julian gave Madison the rundown: I’m in for Angel Island. And we might have to make another stop Friday night. I’ll call you when I get home.

CHAPTER 8
    Fisherman’s Wharf was awash with tourists dressed in shorts and T-shirts, clothing that was rarely appropriate for San Francisco in August. This Thursday morning was no exception. As Reese and her parents climbed out of the taxi they had taken from their house, she saw a family in matching khaki shorts and Disney T-shirts shivering in the cool wind from the bay. Reese hadn’t been here since she was a kid, when her dad had brought his parents to view the barking sea lions lolling on their floating platforms. She remembered the briny smell of the sea: fish and salt water mingled with the warm, sugary scent of cotton candy.
    They had arrived early for the ferry to Angel Island, and as they approached the dock at Pier 39, Reese saw a crowd gathered there. As they drew closer, she realized they weren’t waiting to board the ferry; they were carrying signs like the demonstratorswho had thronged Reese’s street the week before. Her heart sank. Had they simply moved from her neighborhood to Fisherman’s Wharf?
    Metal barriers had been set up to keep the street and dock area clear for pedestrians, so the demonstrators were packed close together on both sides. Police officers were stationed at regular intervals, and there was a checkpoint at the entrance to the ferry boarding area, but despite the organized security the whole place felt like it was on the brink of chaos. The demonstrators were chanting something that Reese couldn’t make out yet, but they were clearly angry. The signs they held put them definitively in the anti-Imria camp: DON’T BELIEVE GOVERNMENT LIES , read one. Another