I go through the rest. Birthplace. Birth date.
“Parents’ names?”
“My mother’s name was Cecily O’Rourke.”
Was. My pen hesitates for a second before scrawling her name down. “Father?”
“Don’t know.”
I try to show no reaction at his blunt response, but it takes me a moment to gather my thoughts and move to the next question. Who doesn’t know the name of their own father?
“Siblings?”
“None.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Just foster ones—”
“Oh?” It’s something, and I’m beginning to suspect there’s not a lot he’s going to volunteer. I’m sure there’s a lot more to him . . . more than I’ll ever know. More than he lets anyone know. But for now, I need to fill out this work sheet with something. Even if it’s just empty facts. “So you live with foster parents? What are their names? How long have you been with them?”
I don’t look up from my notes, but I feel his eyes on me.
“I have a foster mother. Martha Delaney. She’s taken in five of us. At least the last time I counted.”
A joke. I didn’t think he had a sense of humor.
I nod, still writing. “Uh-huh.” Cocking my head, I read the next question: “What’s your favorite hobby?” I try not to cringe at the totally inane question. Does this guy have a hobby? He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who knits or plays the violin. Maybe he likes video games. The zombie-killer kind. Those are plenty violent.
He leans forward, both his arms relaxed on his desk. His fingers lightly tap the surface, just at the tips. “No hobbies.”
“Something you do in your free time . . . something you enjoy . . .”
“I know the definition of ‘hobby,’” he replies, and I feel justifiably dumb.
“Of course.” I scrawl N/A next to the question.
“I have a job . . . but I wouldn’t call washing dishes at the Golden Palace six nights a week a hobby.”
Before I can think, I ask, “Then why do you do it?”
It’s the wrong thing to say. I know this immediately. I see that as his features harden, looking even more carved, more like granite. I don’t have time to explain what I meant, which was: Why does he work that particular job?
“God, you’re so sheltered, aren’t you? It’s how I make a living. Martha isn’t big on allowances. She puts a roof over our heads, cooks and feeds us, and collects a state check for fostering six kids no one else wants. There’s not a lot left over after the bills are paid.” He smiles enough to reveal teeth. Even and startling white against his complexion.
He continues, and it’s the most I’ve heard him speak, even if every word drips scorn. “If I want socks, a pack of gum, gas money for my piece-of-crap truck that’s always breaking down . . . I have to earn it.” His gaze scours over me. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, princess?”
I flinch, feeling shamed. Just like he intended.
But then something happens. I start to get mad. Anger warms my face, creeps over my ears in a stinging wash of heat. “A princess in a cage?” I cock my head. “I’ve never heard of that particular fairy tale. You don’t know anything about me. I might have had certain advantages, but I’m still in here with you. Don’t judge me.”
He laughs lightly, the sound low and deep. “Don’t judge you? That’s funny. You better get used to the world judging you. You’re a carrier now. That’s all there is.”
“I won’t ever get used to that.” I shake my head, vowing this to myself.
He considers me. “You’re going to have a hard road if you can’t accept what you are.”
“Like you do?”
He nods.
I press a hand to my chest. “I’ll never accept it.”
He looks at me strangely, almost curiously, his eyes less hard. There’s a glint of something in his gaze as he looks at me. For a moment, he doesn’t seem so harsh, so ruthless. Which unnerves me almost more.
I snatch the work sheet off the desk and storm to my seat in a huff, deciding I’d had enough for one day. We have a week to complete the project. I’ll finish the interview when I’m less pissed. Or maybe I’ll make it up. Who’s to know? I doubt he’ll care.
I don’t know what the Agency hopes to accomplish by having us get to know each other. Maybe they hope that we’ll dislike each other so much that we’ll turn on one another. Kill each other off so that the world doesn’t have to worry about carriers anymore.
Only it dawns on me as I sit there that I don’t dislike him exactly. He scares me—yes. No denying that. But a part of me admires him. This boy who walks around almost proudly, like he doesn’t care what the world thinks of him. Even imprinted, there’s nothing beaten or cowed about him.
The scathing way he called me “princess” rings in my ears, and I’m sure he dislikes me. And that, for some reason, bothers me.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
* * *
The female carrier should be considered no less a threat purely because of gender—or because of her small subset within HTS carrier population. Her anomalous existence begs careful consideration. In a manner, she is more complicated than her male counterpart. Without DNA testing, she would likely be entirely unidentifiable. Her actions are less predictable and she should, ergo, be viewed as extremely dangerous and treated with extreme caution. . . .
—Lecture from Dr. Wainwright to the National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime at Quantico
NINE
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I RISE FROM MY DESK and approach the Cage door. From the left corner of my eye, I try to see what it is Sean is working on. It looks like a work sheet. I could have probably turned my head to get a better look. It’s not as though he would catch me looking and mistake my interest for . . . well, interest. He’s oblivious to me, not even looking up as I pass him.
Brockman motions me through the door.
“Davina. What can I do for you?” That he insists on using my full name grates on my nerves. Like he’s somehow this mature, responsible grown-up who doesn’t go around molesting young girls.
I glance back into the Cage. Just a quick look and, sure enough, Coco is turned around in her desk, watching us, her dark eyes alert and wary.
I face him again. “Can I use the bathroom?” He takes a long moment before answering. Making me wait uncomfortably in front of him. I shouldn’t have consumed so much water at lunch. I’ll have to quit doing that if it means having to ask him to use the restroom every afternoon.
Leaning forward over his desk, he scribbles a pass for me. Tearing it off, he hands it to me. When I reach for it he pulls it back. “Don’t be long,” he warns. Jerk.
“I want to go, too!” Nathan shouts from his desk.
“Shut up, Nathan,” Brockman replies mildly, finally letting me have the pass.
Nodding, I turn and push open one of the heavy metal doors. It bangs shut behind me, echoing off the narrow corridor. I hurry past the workout room, not even looking inside. The sound of male voices and the clang of weights tells me there’s a group in there working.
The girls’ bathroom is small, just two stalls. I’m in the second stall when the door creaks open. I finish but hesitate inside the cramped space. I don’t know why. Maybe because this time of day, there don’t seem to be any girls down here. It was just the sound of guys in the workout room, and I imagine the girls’ locker room has its own bathroom.
Standing, I listen, lightly resting my hand against the cold, graffiti-riddled door. Straining to hear something, I lean forward, waiting for the sound of running water in the faucet. Or the door in the neighboring stall swinging open and shut. Normal sounds of someone in here simply doing their business.
Nothing.
I know someone’s here though . . . imagine that I can hear the soft fall of their breath. I lean forwa
rd a bit more now. Peek through the stall crack.
Maybe Brockman let Coco go to the bathroom. Somehow, the thought of this doesn’t make me feel any more at ease.
“I know you’re in there. Come out.”
The sound of that voice jars everything loose inside me. I shouldn’t hear this person here. Of all places, I should be safe from him in the girls’ bathroom.
“Come out or I’ll come in.”
This threat sends a hot streak of panic racing through me. I fumble for the lock and step out.
Brockman waits with his arms crossed over his chest, his pose relaxed.
“What are you doing in here?” I manage to get out.
“I thought we should have a word about what you saw yesterday.”
I cast my eyes downward and move to the sink. Turning on the faucet, I wash my hands, desperate to have something to do other than look him in the face.
“I didn’t see anything.”
He doesn’t reply and I look up in the mirror, biting back a gasp to see he’s moved behind me.
“Come on. Let’s not pretend.”
Instead of denying what I saw again—clearly, he’s not going to accept that—I shut off the water and lightly shake my hands over the sink. Having no choice, I turn.
“You’re in the girls’ bathroom. Someone might come in here,” I tell him, gratified to hear that my voice is steady. Especially as all I can see when I look at him are his fingers with their chewed-to-the-quick nails clenched around Coco’s small shoulder. The image is burned into my memory and fills me with rage and disgust and the overwhelming urge to slap him.
“Girls’ PE doesn’t start until seventh period.”
“Anyone could walk in.”
Smiling, he rips me a paper towel from the dispenser. “The arrangement I have with Coco isn’t exclusive to her, you know.”
Suddenly, I think I’m going to be sick.
“There’s room for you, too. A girl like you is going to need protection.”
Yeah. I need protection from the likes of him. And what does he mean “a girl like me”? Somehow I think he just means: a girl. Period. But then I think of Nathan slapping Gil. That easily could be me. He already squeezed my hand hard enough to hurt—and that was just in the first two minutes I met him. Since then I’d caught him looking at me several times, bending his head close to Brian and then laughing in my direction. Jokes at my expense. And maybe something more sinister. Who knows? Maybe he has a nasty plan for me. The thought has been there, lurking in the shadows, but I refuse to let that cow me into accepting Brockman’s particular brand of friendship.
“No, thanks.” I move past him, careful not to touch him as I drop my paper towel into the trash.
“Just think about it,” he calls as I push open the door.
But it fails to swing out all the way. It stops. Thuds against something. I move back. The door swings and Sean steps inside. I stare, trying to reconcile the sight of him here. In the girls’ bathroom. The small space suddenly feels claustrophobic. It’s like all the air and energy are sucked up inside him.
His face is stoic as ever, but his eyes . . .
I swallow at the sight of them. His eyes are like frosted glass, that outer ring dark blue and starkly prominent as he looks from me to Brockman.
“O’Rourke. Why aren’t you in the Cage?” Brockman’s voice is different. Not so silky.
I stand between the two of them, feeling trapped. The teacher suddenly doesn’t look so relaxed. He plants his hands on his hips and tries to look stern . . . older than the five years or so he has on us. Maybe he’s even going for strong and formidable, but that’s a stretch when he’s a foot shorter than Sean and nowhere near as muscular.
“You’re not going to do this,” Sean says softly—vague words but with an underlying steel to them.
Brockman’s face flushes and his chest puffs out. “You don’t come in here and—”
“Davy,” Sean interrupts him, “go back to the Cage.”
I bristle, resenting him telling me what to do. But then he looks at me. The icy frost still chills the blue-gray of his eyes, but something else gleams there, too. It gives me pause.
He steps to the side, his voice quieter. “Go on.”
I nod. Quite simply, I don’t want to be in the bathroom with either one of them. I don’t look at Brockman. Just move. Hurry out of the bathroom as quickly as I can.
Once in the hall, I pause to look over my shoulder. What just happened? I frown, quite certain Sean had just helped me. That the indefinable something I had seen in his eyes was . . . concern. For me? Why? How? He is a carrier. A true carrier . . . with an imprint. He’s not a mistake. He’s the real thing.
Utterly confused, I turn and walk back inside the Cage. The others are waiting for me.
“Did you see O’Rourke? Is he with Brockman? Is he kicking his ass?” Nathan bounces on his desk like a four-year-old who consumed too much candy. He beats the surface. “Man, I’ve been wanting to kick that guy’s ass.”
Clearly, everyone knew that Sean had come after Brockman—and that Brockman had come after me. I wince.
Nathan pumps a fist in the air. “Sweet. I hope O’Rourke stomps all over him.”
Gil rolls his eyes and then looks at me, his light brown eyes deep with worry. “You okay?” Again, I’m struck with the fact that this boy is supposed to be dangerous. A killer?
I nod, letting the door clang shut behind me.
His gaze moves beyond me. “Where’s Sean?”
I motion vaguely behind me, uncomfortable elaborating on the fact that he followed Brockman and me into the bathroom.
I sink down in my chair and slide my hands beneath my thighs. Sitting on my hands, I fight the urge to look over my shoulder. I remind myself this day will be over soon, and then I’ll be with Zac tonight, living the life that really belongs to me. Not this.
Coco suddenly drops down in front of me. “What happened?”
I blink.
She cocks her head to the side, her gaze sharp. “With you and Brockman?”
“I—nothing.”
Her dark eyes narrow. “He mess with you?”
I shake my head, not wanting to talk about this. Especially with her. The last thing I want is to get warned off Brockman again.
The door clangs shut and I can’t help myself. I look over my shoulder just as Sean lowers into his desk. His gaze holds mine and the air suddenly becomes too thick. Or my lungs too small. Either way, I can’t breathe.
Brockman’s back, too. He sits at his desk and flips open a magazine, not glancing at us. I study him carefully, looking for any evidence that he and Sean had an altercation, but he looks totally normal.
“Sean’s a good guy.”
I turn around and look at Coco with surprise. She uttered the words so softly I wonder if I heard her right. I study the way her dark eyes settle almost wistfully on Sean.
“A good guy?” I echo, trying to wrap my head around this. It’s not something I had even considered before. Not something I let myself consider. Although if me being here was a mistake . . . then maybe it was a mistake for others, too. Okay, not Nathan, but I had already decided Gil couldn’t possibly be a bad sort.
Coco’s gaze snaps back to me. “When I first got sent here, he tried to help keep Brockman away.” She shrugged as if it were nothing. Just a dim memory.
I shake my head. “Why didn’t you let him?”
She snorts. “He might be tough, but he doesn’t have any real power. He might be able to handle Nathan and Brian, but in the end, who’s gonna help me in this school? The teacher? Or another carrier?”
I just stare at her.
“I do what I have to.” She looks me over. “And you will, too. Eventually.” Her gaze flicks to the boy sitting two desks behind me. I don’t need to follow her gaze to know she’s looking at him again. “There won’t always be a Sean around.”
She gets up then and moves to her desk. I watch as she opens her backpack
and starts rifling through it, hunting for something. I study the slim line of her bent neck, the curly hair pulled up in a messy knot on her head, wondering what about this girl is so dangerous . . . so deadly. What lurks inside her?
What has she ever done, or Gil—or me, for that matter—to deserve ending up down here?
What did Sean O’Rourke do?
I gnaw on the edge of my thumb through the remainder of the day, eyeing the clock, willing the hour hand to move. It’s starting to get to me. The chain link, the space that feels like it’s shrinking, closing in. The long stretch of mostly soundless hours. I can’t wait for tonight when I can pretend none of this exists.
Every time I glance behind me to check the time, my gaze collides with Sean’s. Those pale eyes bore into me. When I look, it’s like he’s waiting for me . . . like he knows I’m going to turn around.
When we’re finally dismissed, I’m the first out of my seat. I’m careful to leave nothing behind. Not my satchel or purse. I sling both over my shoulder and bang out of the Cage. My feet race without quite running down the narrow hall. I don’t cross paths with anyone, and I reach the parking lot without incident. All of this makes me feel like I made it. Like I escaped.
Sliding behind the wheel, I drag a deep breath of stale, warm air inside my lungs. It’s not home, but close enough. It’s my car, my space, my sanctuary. Air releases in a loud shudder from my lips. I wrap both hands around the steering wheel like I need something to hang on to.
Suddenly, someone raps the glass next to me. Not very loudly, but a bomb might as well have dropped outside my car. I jump. A yelp escapes me, and both my hands fly over my mouth.
Gil stands there, hands buried in his pants. I haven’t started the car yet, but I need to in order to roll down the window. He waits, watching me patiently through the glass as I fumble with the keys and start the engine. I hit the button for the window. It slides down with a purr.
“Nice car,” he murmurs, his gaze sliding over the plush interior.
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