by Zoe Cannon
“There’s nothing left.” When she spoke, she tasted blood.
“It’s all right, Becca. It’s going to be okay.” Micah’s hands traveled down her arms, trailing heat behind them as they encircled her wrists. “All you have to do is give me the names.”
His nails dug into her skin, cold as metal. She looked down to see the cuffs securing her arms to the chair, her skin a mottled purple underneath as her struggles formed new bruises over the old. In front of her, Lucas paced back and forth, his gaze never leaving hers.
“The other members of your organization.” His cold eyes pinned her in place. “Who are they?”
“I can’t save them.” Bodies slumped against the wall, bodies lined up on the ground. Lives slipping through her hands. Names at the edge of her lips. There was nothing left in her to hold the words back, nothing left in her to keep the others safe. Lucas had cut it all away with his gleaming tools. He had burned it all away under the hard white light.
Nothing left.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Micah ran a finger along her cheek, wiping away her tears. “You did what you had to do. You don’t need to fight anymore.”
No. She had to keep going. She had to hold out until… until…
I can’t. I can’t hold out. It’s over.
“It’s over,” said Micah, echoing her thoughts. “You’re done.” He gave the words a strange weight. Like he was trying to tell her something.
He stroked her sweat-matted hair. Something silver flashed in his other hand.
“How many of you are there?” Lucas leaned closer. Sharp metal danced between them. “What are your objectives?” Closer. “It’s time to end this, Becca. Give me names.”
She sagged. Lowered her head. The last of her strength flowed out of her, pooling like blood onto the floor.
It’s time to end this.
With a last silent apology, she opened her mouth, preparing to speak.
Micah held a finger to her lips.
It’s time. A whisper, so quiet she almost couldn’t hear.
But the voice didn’t belong to Micah. It didn’t belong to Lucas.
It belonged to her.
It’s time to end this.
It’s time to save them.
She had nothing left. But it didn’t matter. She would do what she had come here to do.
She raised her eyes, blurry with tears and exhaustion, to Lucas. In a raw voice, through lips cracked from thirst, she spoke.
“I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
For the first time in longer than she could remember, Becca woke up smiling.
She couldn’t breathe without wincing, couldn’t move without gasping in pain. All around her, the walls of the cell pressed in. She was helpless, broken, defeated. In a few short days—or even sooner—she would be dead.
And the resistance would survive.
She had saved them.
She had won.
She felt empty, hollowed out, as if the last of whatever had held her together for the past five years had spilled out of her along with her confession.
She felt… free.
I’ve done what I needed to do. There’s nothing left.
Nothing left but to wait for her execution.
How long before they came for her?
As if in answer to her thoughts, she heard a click. A line of light appeared against the far wall, a break in the pattern of gray on gray, as the door began to open.
Not days after all, then. Maybe not even hours.
She gripped the side of the bed with one hand, and used the other to push herself up. A strangled scream rose from deep in her throat; she clamped her lips shut to hold it in. Keep going. Off the bed. Onto her feet. She wobbled, swayed, caught herself against the wall just in time. The floor rolled under her like a stormy sea as her vision narrowed to a single point.
She drew in a breath. Her vision cleared.
The door opened a little further.
She tried letting go of the wall, only to half-collapse against it with a cry she couldn’t suppress. But it didn’t matter. The guards could carry her out of here if they had to. She just wanted to show them she wasn’t afraid. That she didn’t regret what she had done. That she would face the consequences gladly.
But no guards entered the cell.
Only her mother.
She had pulled her hair back in its usual braid, so tight that it stretched the skin of her forehead; not one strand dared to fall out of place. Her clothes were neat and crisp, her mouth set in a determined line. Makeup had erased any remnants of her earlier pallor.
On the surface, she looked like herself again. Like Internal’s star interrogator. Like the mother Becca remembered.
But Becca was trained to see beneath the surface. To notice the things other people didn’t. Even without her evaluator training, though, she knew her mom well enough to see the change in her.
And she had watched enough interrogations to know what broken looked like.
Despite her memory of their last conversation, Becca had to restrain herself from rushing to her mom’s side, wrapping her arms around her, trying to comfort her the way she had that night in her apartment. But she couldn’t step away from the wall without falling, and anything she could say would only make things worse.
Her mom took one cautious step after another, looking barely more steady on her feet than Becca. An arm’s length away, she stopped. She ran her gaze over Becca. Whatever she saw there, it sent her staggering back like a punch to the face. She turned her head away, her breath catching in her throat.
When she spoke, the words came out as barely more than a hiss of sound. Becca read her lips more than heard her voice.
“I’m sorry, Becca.”
She reached a hand out to Becca, the gesture as cautious as her steps had been, as though Becca were a priceless crystal sculpture that could shatter at the slightest touch. As though Becca were a bird that could fly away at any second. She brushed her fingers along Becca’s collarbone, tracing the edge of a bruise.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Becca placed her free hand over her mom’s. “It’s over.”
“It’s over,” her mom echoed. She took a breath, like she was trying to gather her strength. “It’s time for us to go.” Slowly, with obvious reluctance, she pulled her hand out from under Becca’s. “Do you think you can walk?”
So Becca had been right after all.
It was time.
“They sent you to bring me to…” She hesitated. But she had no reason to hide from the word. Not now. “…to the execution?”
Had Internal really been cruel enough to send her mom, of all people, to do this? Or had her mom volunteered, just for the chance to see Becca one last time?
But her mom shook her head. “No, Becca. You’re not going to be executed.” The anguish on her face tightened into resolve. “I came to take you home.”
Internal wouldn’t let Becca go. Not after what she had said in her interrogation. Not after she had admitted to leading the resistance.
Which meant her mom could only be saying one thing.
Becca looked up. The camera’s unmoving eye, the dead spot where its light should have been, told her she was right.
She stared at her mom, uncomprehending. “You know what I did. What I am.”
“I know a place you can stay for a couple of days,” her mom continued, as if Becca hadn’t spoken. “I’m sure you have contacts who can help you after that.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Listen to me.” Her mom took Becca’s chin in her hand. She tilted Becca’s head up, making sure their eyes met. “I don’t understand what you’ve become, or how you could do the things you’ve done. But you’re my daughter, Becca. You’re my daughter, and I love you. And nothing—nothing—will change that.”
&nbs
p; Becca had thought she had cried for the last time back in the interrogation room. But fresh tears threatened to overflow at her mom’s words, at the look in her mom’s eyes that told Becca she meant them.
You’re my daughter.
You’re my daughter, and I love you.
Her mom released Becca’s chin, but her eyes still held Becca in place. “I learned three years ago that your safety meant more to me than anything else. More than my life. More than my work. I swore back then that nothing like that would ever happen again—that I would do everything in my power to protect you. And that’s what I’m going to do. Even if it means turning against Internal, even if it means giving up my life, they will not take you from me.”
Becca’s tears spilled over.
“Thank you.” The words weren’t enough, but they were all she had. “But I—”
She stopped.
What if she didn’t refuse?
With her confession, Investigation had enough ammunition to stop the other interrogations and declare the search for the resistance over. There was nothing else Becca needed to do here. She could escape, go into hiding, keep fighting Internal under a new identity.
She could live.
And her mom wouldn’t have to lose her.
But if she escaped, Internal would start searching for her again. They wouldn’t stop until they found her. And with Internal swarming the town in their hunt for Becca, the others wouldn’t be able to stay hidden for long.
“But I can’t go with you,” she finished. “I’m staying here.”
Her mom’s mouth opened. No sound came out.
“I’m sorry,” Becca said softly. “But I won’t run from this. I won’t live my life in hiding.” She lifted her head, stood as straight as she could manage. Showing her mom what she had intended to show whoever had been sent to lead her to her death. I chose this. I’m not afraid.
“If you stay here, you’ll die.” Her mom’s voice sounded like breaking glass. “You’ll die, Becca. Do you understand?”
“It’s okay.” Becca tried to smile. To her surprise, it came easily this time. “I always knew how this would end. I accepted it a long time ago.”
Her smile only made her mom’s face twist in pain. “No.” The word was a gasp of breath, like a drowning person gulping air.
Becca spoke as gently as she could. “It isn’t your choice to make.”
“No, Becca. I won’t do this.”
“You don’t have to do anything.” Becca could hear her mother speaking through her again. Her mother, comforting her. Telling her that everything would be all right. “Just let me go.”
“I met with the directors this morning.” Her mom stared through Becca. Her voice belonged to a ghost. “They’re concerned that my association with you may present a problem, once your activities become public knowledge.” Her words were too formal, too careful. “The fact that Raleigh Dalcourt’s daughter could lead an organization like yours—and that it could go unnoticed for so long—might weaken the country’s confidence in Internal. The public could even begin to doubt my loyalties. The directors think Internal needs to send a clear message to counteract any…” The sentence dissolved into a low noise of despair. “Becca, they ordered me to—” She covered her mouth, holding in the rest.
But Becca heard it anyway.
It was impossible. It was obscene. It was—
It was the perfect show of loyalty. The perfect demonstration of a good citizen’s priorities.
“They want you to do it,” Becca breathed. “They want you to kill me.”
Her mom’s silence was answer enough.
Becca used to wonder what her mom would do if she ever found out the truth. She used to wonder which her mom would choose—her love for her daughter, or her devotion to Internal. She had been fairly certain she knew the answer. The two of them were alike, after all, despite how long it had taken Becca to admit it. What was it that Lucas had called them? People who value their ideals above all else—above their own lives or anyone else’s.
Three years ago, Becca had chosen the resistance over her mother. She had sacrificed her mother’s life, had helped frame her for dissident activity in order to keep the resistance alive. Her mom had only survived thanks to luck and a long-shot plan.
But when her mom had been faced with the same choice…
She had come here. She had chosen to defy Internal, to let a dissident go free, rather than let her daughter die.
She had chosen Becca.
Guilt stabbed through Becca, a thousand tiny needles.
And yet…
If Becca had done what her mother was doing now, Kara would never have escaped the reeducation center. The liberation would never have happened.
The resistance would have died.
Above their own lives—or anyone else’s.
Becca had made the only choice she could have made.
She had stood by her principles, had fought for her ideals, no matter how hard it had been. No matter what sacrifices it had required. She had taken the harder path—and the right one.
She had followed the lessons her mother had taught her.
“For a long time, I was terrified of turning into you,” she said quietly. “But I was looking at it the wrong way all that time. We fight on different sides. We stand for different things. If we were both going to live through this, we would always be enemies. But we’re the same. You taught me to be who I am. And now…” She exhaled slowly. “Now it’s my turn.”
She took her mom’s hand.
And she spoke.
Just five words. But, she suspected, the hardest words her mom would ever hear from her. Harder than I joined the resistance five years ago. Harder than I can’t go with you.
“You have to kill me.”
Her mom stared. First into her eyes, searching for the hidden message. Then down at their hands, still intertwined—Becca with a jagged-edged burn disappearing up under her sleeve, her mom’s fingers bone-white. “I don’t understand.”
“You taught me to live by my principles no matter how hard it gets.” Becca squeezed her mom’s hand. “This is as hard as it will ever get for you. But you have to do it. Because it’s who you are. It’s who we both are.” She followed her mom’s gaze to their linked fingers. “This is your fight—and you have to keep fighting. You have to be the person you taught me to be.”
“No.” Her mom jerked her hand away. Becca could almost see the cracks running through her, as if at any moment she would crumble to the floor in a million pieces. “Do you really think that’s who I am? Killing my own daughter—do you think that’s what I believe in?”
“Of course not.” She wanted to wrap her arms around her mom to hold all the pieces together, to keep her from shattering. But that wouldn’t help. All she could do was keep talking. “But you believe in stopping the dissidents. This isn’t about killing your daughter—it’s about executing a resistance leader. And that’s who you are. It’s what you do.”
“It’s what Raleigh Dalcourt does.” Her mom’s voice walked a line between bitterness and defeat as she spoke the name. “But that person, the one they talk about on the news… she isn’t real. I knew it the second they gave me the order.” She stumbled past Becca and sank to the bed, as if she could no longer hold herself upright. “I’m not the interrogator they need. I’m not superhuman. I’m your mother. That’s all.”
“I used to think that was how it worked,” said Becca. “I thought you couldn’t do what you do for Internal and still be the same person who used to tuck me in at night. But I was wrong.” She half-sat, half-collapsed, onto the bed beside her mom. “It’s why I didn’t let Jake kill you three years ago—and it’s why you have to do this. Because you’re both. You always have been.”
And then she understood.
The realization didn’t hit her like lightning. It didn’t take her breath away. Instead, it slipped into her mind like a quiet nod of recognition, like the soft click of a key fitting into
a lock.
“We’re symbols,” she said. “Both of us. When people look at me, they see the resistance leader, the person who broke a thousand prisoners out of 117. When they look at you, they see Internal’s most dangerous interrogator, singlehandedly holding back the dissident threat. But we’re less than that—and at the same time, so much more. Less, because you’re right—we can’t be superhuman. No one can. But also more, because there are sides to us that they never see. We can’t shut off those parts of ourselves—the parts that feel, and doubt, and love—no matter how much we might want to.”
Now she was the one to place her fingers under her mom’s chin, like her mom had done to her a moment ago. She was the one to force her mom’s eyes to hers.
“But the symbol is real.” Her mom’s face went out of focus as her thoughts unfolded before her. “That’s what we do for them—you for Internal, me for the resistance. It’s not about becoming superhuman. It’s not about shutting everything else off. It’s about giving them the symbol they need.”
She had never truly been the resistance leader she had thought she was. She had never given up her old self, her human self—not because she hadn’t tried, but because it wasn’t possible.
But she had never stopped being what the resistance needed.
And when Internal executed her—when her mother executed her—she would be what they needed one last time.
She would show the resistance that symbol. She would show the country that symbol. She would show them someone who had dared to defy the regime, someone who had freed every prisoner from the country’s most secure processing center. And no matter how much she was shaking inside, she would show them someone who wasn’t afraid to die for what she believed in.
“This is what the resistance needs from me,” she said. “And it’s what Internal needs from you. Will you do what needs to be done, the way you taught me? Will you stand by your principles, no matter what you have to sacrifice?”
She dropped her hand. Released her mom’s gaze. She didn’t say anything else.
The choice belonged to her mom now.
