“When wolves are held during admissions or removed from the dorms? When a few wolves start spouting conspiracy theories about disappearances?” Sinclair lifted her hand from my shoulder and stepped back. She perched on the edge of the desk. “Mackenzie, Thornhill is my first post as warden, but I’ve worked at three other camps. Each place is the same. Anytime anything happens to a wolf, conspiracy rumors swirl.”
She crossed her arms. “As to why the disease hasn’t been made public, I suspect the LSRB is waiting until they have enough information to assure the reg population that they’re not at any risk from this new condition. No one wants a return to the riots we had when lupine syndrome was first announced.”
But wouldn’t the packs have noticed people getting sick?
Sinclair picked up on my uncertainty.
“The LSRB aren’t evil, Mackenzie. We’re not bogeymen. I applied for a job at the camps right after college. Do you know why?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “Because I wanted to help people. Infected people.”
A short, skeptical noise escaped my lips before I could stop it.
“It’s true.” Something passed underneath Sinclair’s perfect facade, something that was sad and a little messy and maybe slightly damaged. Something that was full of regret. It was a look I sometimes saw in the mirror after I had been dreaming of Amy. “My sister was infected. I joined the LSRB because I wanted to make things better for people like her. After I saw how horrible the other camps were, I lobbied for Thornhill. I wanted to create a place that was more than just a dumping ground where the infected were left to die.” She paused for a long moment. “No one chooses infection.”
I swallowed. “Your sister is in a camp?”
“No. Julie died when I was seventeen.” Sinclair twisted the garnet around her finger, and I wondered if the ring had belonged to her sister.
“I’m sorry.” The words weren’t a lie, but they weren’t quite genuine: I wanted to feel sorry for her, but I didn’t trust her. She was the person keeping us here. For all I knew, everything she had just said was a lie. “Why tell me?” I asked hesitantly, trying to figure her out. “The disease? Your sister? Any of it?”
“Because I want the wolves in Thornhill to understand that I have their best interests at heart. I don’t want what I’m trying to accomplish here being undermined by fear and rumors.” She leaned forward. “I receive daily reports on the self-control class. Do you have any idea how remarkable what you did yesterday was?”
A lump rose in my throat. “I didn’t do anything.”
It was like I hadn’t spoken.
“Part of the reason we restrict shifting to a single area is that, over time, people associate the pain and rush they experience with that environment. It eventually becomes harder to shift in other places and helps improve control. If you repeated the same exercise your class underwent yesterday in two months, fewer people would transform. In six months, almost none of them would.” She gave her words a moment to sink in. “For a wolf to resist shifting on the first day is rare. You’re already ahead of the curve when it comes to control. You can be an example to your peers.”
A bead of sweat rolled down the back of my neck. I didn’t want to be an example; I wanted to be invisible.
A sharp crackle emanated from the phone. I breathed a sigh of relief at the interruption as Sinclair reached behind her and pressed a button.
“Warden? There’s been a code twelve. He’s in the building, but he’s panicking.”
Sinclair inhaled sharply. “I’ll be right there. Tell them not to agitate him.” She stood and quickly retrieved a pair of heels from underneath the desk.
I started to rise.
“Stay here.” She shoved her feet into her shoes. “I’ll be back in a minute.” The warden I had glimpsed flashes of over the past few minutes—the one who seemed sympathetic and concerned—had been replaced by the woman I had seen at orientation.
She crossed the room. The door closed behind her and there was an electronic beep as the lock engaged.
Silence.
I counted to ten and then darted for the phone. I punched in Jason’s cell number. There was a click and then an automated voice told me to enter my phone code.
My vision swam and my ears filled with a faint buzzing sound as a wave of frustration rose up. I started to slam the handset down before checking myself at the last instant. With a deep breath, I slowly set it into the cradle.
I shot a nervous glance at the door and lifted Serena’s file. The only thing inside was her admission form. There were no test results or doctor’s notes—nothing to indicate there was anything wrong with her. The only thing out of the ordinary was a red circle around the age she had been when she became infected.
If Serena really was sick—if there really was a new disease—could it have something to do with age? No one knew why, but people who contracted LS before fifteen only had a 40-percent chance of surviving their first shift. Serena had been infected when she was eleven.
I closed the folder.
There was a laptop on the desk, but it displayed a login, and the stack of papers underneath Serena’s file were just class schedules and budget sheets—nothing that would help me figure out what was happening to her and nothing that might help us plan a way out of this place.
Quickly, I moved on to the desk drawers. Only the top one was unlocked. When I opened it, I saw why: all it contained was a pen, three paperclips, and a box of meal replacement bars. I guess being a prison warden didn’t leave a lot of time for balanced nutrition.
I closed the drawer and turned.
The painting filled my vision.
What I had taken for shadows behind the woman were smokelike men, contorted and screaming as though they were damned. This close, I could see that her dress wasn’t tattered; it was scorched.
Not exactly something I’d want hanging in my office.
I frowned. The painting really wasn’t flush with the wall. I ran my fingers over the frame and jumped back as the whole thing swung out and revealed a touch screen almost as large as the TV Jason had in his bedroom. A list of names filled the screen.
The list was broken into two sections, “assets” and “raw,” and there were twenty names under the first category. My stomach lurched as I realized that Serena’s name was third and that my name and Kyle’s—each followed by a question mark—appeared near the bottom.
I tapped Kyle’s name and an image filled the screen. It was a black-and-white shot of him in the cage yesterday morning. I was just visible behind his shoulder. I touched the photo and it closed.
Now I knew why Sinclair had known my name without being told.
I touched Serena’s name. An image of her slumped behind a steel table filled the screen. She stared at the camera, eyes horribly blank. Underneath the photo was a small info icon. When I tapped it, the information from Serena’s admission form overlaid the photo in a pop-up.
I reached out to close the info window and froze. It was like I had suddenly been dropped into a tank of ice water. All the air was pulled from my lungs and everything seemed to slow down as I read the last line of text:
Candidate for Willowgrove.
15
WILLOWGROVE. IT EXISTED. ACCORDING TO THE URBAN legends, it was a mystery camp. According to Dex, it was a death sentence. Whatever it was, it was real. It was real and Serena was caught up in it.
Muffled voices drifted through the door and jolted me out of my shock. I jabbed the touchscreen—once, twice, until it was back the way I had found it—then swung the painting into place.
Faint electronic beeps sounded from the keypad outside as I threw myself around the desk and into my seat. My butt barely had time to touch down before the warden opened the door.
Anger filled her eyes. For a heart-stopping moment, I was certain she knew what I had seen, but she simply said, “Mackenzie, it’s time you headed to class.”
I rose unsteadily and crossed the room. A dozen questions fo
ught to get free, but I held them back. It wasn’t like I could just tell Sinclair I had been snooping around her office and then casually ask what Willowgrove was.
She placed a hand on my arm, palm over the scar Derby had left, as she ushered me into the waiting room. My skin crawled until the touch fell away.
“Elliott, would you mind escorting Mackenzie to the remainder of her morning class?”
“Sure,” said a voice capable of seducing an angel out of her halo, “I can make sure she gets there.”
I knew that voice.
“Thank you, Elliott.” Sinclair withdrew into her office.
I barely registered her exit.
“Whoa. . . .” Familiar hands were on my arms, steadying me as the room spun. Tan uniform. Blond hair. Green eyes. The colors swirled as I struggled to make sense of the person in front of me.
Jason shot me a tight, guarded grin. “Hi, there. I’m the new intern counselor.”
I just blinked.
He shifted his grip so that one hand rested just underneath my elbow and drew me across the room. “They just had a code twelve—it’s not a good time for you to be in here.”
We stepped into the hallway and then hugged the wall as two program coordinators rushed past. “What’s a code twelve?”
“A guard was scratched.”
Jason guided me down halls and around corners. He released my arm as we approached the entrance where a guard—a woman instead of the man who’d been there earlier—was on duty.
She nodded and Jason returned the gesture, exuding strength and experience and looking years older. There was no way anyone would ever guess he was seventeen.
Outside, guards were milling in the courtyard. There was nothing I could do other than follow Jason and bottle my questions—at least temporarily. I glanced up at the sun, trying to gauge the time. Late morning.
I expected Jason to take the path that led to the classrooms and dorms, but he veered right and headed for an older path that hugged a small rise. The pavement was cracked and crumbling; I had to watch my step as we crested the minuscule hill and passed a long one-story brick building that almost looked like row houses.
“Original staff quarters for the sanatorium,” Jason muttered absently, even though I hadn’t asked. “They’re tearing it down next month.”
Sure enough, the windows were boarded up and yellow caution tape had been strung across the doors.
I stopped in the middle of the path. “Jason, what are you doing here?”
He turned and stared. The expression on his face was equal parts frustration and incredulity. “What do you think I’m doing here? I came to get you out.” He turned and started walking again. “Come on. We need to talk.”
I shook my head, even though his back was to me. “Later. Kyle had an accident”—no way did I feel up to telling Jason just what that accident had entailed—“but the warden said he was sent back to class. I need to make sure he’s okay.”
The lawns bordering the path were overgrown with grass that was almost knee high, but cutting across them would be faster than doubling back and taking the path. Trying not to think about rodents and snakes, I stepped off the crumbling pavement and pushed my way through, skirting an abandoned pile of bricks and an old, dilapidated greenhouse.
I heard Jason follow. “Mac . . .”
“Later, okay? I promise.” I couldn’t believe anything Sinclair had said—especially after seeing that list. Until I saw Kyle for myself, I couldn’t be sure he was okay. And until I was sure he was okay, I couldn’t deal with anything else. Not even Jason.
“I’ve got a letter from your father.”
My step faltered and I turned.
Jason crossed the distance between us and wrapped a hand around my arm. Before I could ask what he thought he was doing or why he had a message from Hank, he pulled me toward the greenhouse.
I tried to break his grip, but Jason was the only seventeen-year-old I knew whose house had a live-in physical trainer and a full-sized gym. He might not be a werewolf, but he was still above average in the strength department.
“Kyle’s fine,” he said, letting go of me so he could force open the greenhouse door. “I saw him leave the sanatorium from across the courtyard.”
He managed to get the door open.
Before he could turn or step aside, I shoved him through, slapping my hands against his back so hard that I felt the sting in my palms. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that in the first place instead of just grabbing me?”
Jason stumbled over the threshold. “Might have if you had slowed down for two seconds.”
Of course. Stupid me. I followed him inside, resisting the urge to strangle him.
The greenhouse’s tinted glass walls were caked with decades of grime, and the light that managed to filter through was almost murky.
It felt like we were standing in a dirty fishbowl. I pulled in a deep breath and immediately regretted it. “Ugh. It smells like something died in here.”
Jason glanced at the corner and frowned. “Something did.”
“Oh, ewwww.” I turned back for the door, but he got there before me and blocked my way.
“Sure. Sneaking into a rehabilitation camp? No problem. One dead gopher? She runs for the hills.” He reached into his pocket, then held out a folded sheet of paper. “From your father.”
I ignored the snark and snatched the letter.
An old wooden counter ran the length of one wall. I walked over to it and leaned against the edge as I turned the letter over in my hands. I glanced up. Jason was watching me with an expression I couldn’t read. It almost looked like hunger, but that didn’t make any sense.
“How did you get in here?” I asked, shaking my head. “What happened to you after the raid and”—I stared at his neck and frowned—“where’s your tattoo?”
He started with the last question first. “One of the local guys was a makeup artist in Hollywood. Supposedly it’s the same stuff Johnny Depp uses to hide his ‘Wino Forever’ tattoo on shoots.”
“Local guy as in werewolf or local guy as in Tracker?”
Jason just looked at me and I knew it was the latter. “They got you in.” My throat constricted. “Why would they help you?”
“Money, mostly.” There was a small crate near his feet and Jason stepped on the edge, flipping it over onto its side. “Plus, being the last person to speak to Derby before his death comes with a weird sort of prestige. Thornhill’s hard up for counselors and guards. It wasn’t too difficult for them to get me in.”
I shook my head. “But why would they think you wanted in? Someone doesn’t just wake up one morning and decide they want to see the inside of a rehabilitation camp.”
“Kyle. I told them I followed a wolf from Hemlock—one I thought might have killed Amy. Trackers are big on revenge.”
I stared at him, horror-struck. “You told them Kyle might have killed Amy? KYLE?”
“I needed an excuse. That’s all it was.”
“And what happens when we get out of here? Don’t you think they’ll want to hunt the wolf they think killed both the granddaughter of a senator and Branson Derby?”
“I didn’t give them Kyle’s real name or age or anything that would lead them to him. Give me some credit.” Jason ran a hand over his face. “Look, I had to tell them something. I had to get in here long enough to get you out.”
“What about Kyle and Serena?”
“They’re werewolves, Mac.”
I pushed away from the counter. After everything that had happened in Hemlock . . . After everything he’d seen . . . “So, what? They deserve to be in here? They’re infected so just write them off?”
Jason’s eyes narrowed and his face flushed. Just for a second, he looked like a man who desperately wanted to hit something. “Of course not. But they can take care of themselves. They’re not going to get electrocuted by a souped-up Taser or gutted by someone who doesn’t know what they are. You need to get out of here. Once you�
�re outside the camp, we’ll figure something out. They’ll be safe until we do.”
A harsh, bitter laugh clawed its way out of my throat. “They’re not safe,” I said miserably. “They’re probably in more trouble than I am.” Briefly, I recounted what had happened since we arrived: Serena being taken and maybe being sick. Dex and his theory about Willowgrove. The graveyard. Sinclair and her sister.
When I was finished, Jason frowned and tugged on his shirt collar. “I’ve never heard anything about a secret camp or anything called Willowgrove. And I’ve heard a lot over the last few days.”
He nodded at the letter I still held clasped in my hand. “It was your father’s idea for me to use the Trackers to get in. Don’t get me wrong, I would have thought of it on my own, but he suggested it before I had a chance.”
“Why?” I unfolded the paper. A set of instructions and a time were scrawled in my father’s looping handwriting. I turned the page over. There was nothing else. Not even his name. Either name.
I scanned the instructions. “Western fence. Unscrew casing. Cut white wire. Replace casing. Test with reader.” I glanced up. “Jason, what is this?”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a slim black case. He held the case out to me, and I set the letter down on the counter before taking it.
Inside were two screwdrivers, the smallest pair of wire cutters I had ever seen, and an electronic device the size of an iPhone. I pulled out the device. It was black with a yellow power button and a small digital display on the front. There was a volume wheel on the side. I turned it over. A label reading Property of Thornhill was plastered on the back.
“They use them to check the HFDs,” explained Jason. “It picks up the frequency they emit and converts it to a sound regs can hear. No sound and the HFD is down—usually because of weather or animals.”
I remembered that Eve and I had seen that guard, Tanner, checking the HFD in the woods.
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