by Anna Carey
She turns the key in the lock, knowing it’ll be another two days before Michael returns from his hunting trip on the south side of the island. She left a message on the machine at the house but there’s no way to reach him when he’s in the woods, no real way to tell him she’d arrived early.
When she pushes the door open, the alarm sounds. She goes to the keypad, punching in the code to silence it, then turns to the wall of windows that overlooks the ocean. The view always surprises her, even more when she’s been gone for several months. It’s nothing but water in every direction. She always arranges for the plane to drop her in the field an hour before sunset, so that by the time she gets to the house the sky is a bright pink, the sun a yellow disk slipping behind the western cliff face.
The house is completely silent. She goes to the glass wall in the living room, looking out. Far below, the tide is coming in, the waves rushing over the sand, colliding into the rocks. She stares over the horizon, turning back toward the western sky, and that’s when she sees it.
There’s writing on the side of one of the rocks. It’s ten feet up from where the water hits. Someone would’ve had to scale the cliff face to get to it, balancing on one of the narrow ledges in the stone. The writing is brownish-red, though she can’t quite make out the letters from so high up.
She goes to the desk in the corner of the living room, pulling her husband’s binoculars from the top drawer, and looks out through the lenses. She turns the dial at the top to bring the writing into focus.
Her hands shake as she reads it, processing the messy scrawl. Out on the cliff below is a dark red stain. Just four letters.
HELP.
Michael. It has to be. She scans the house, looking for something, anything, to bring with her. The nearest hospital is an hour’s flight away. Is he still alive? How long ago did he write that? He must’ve slipped on the trail; he must be trapped there, on the cliff ledge.
She runs out of the front gate, hurrying down the path, the thin branches scraping at her legs. It’s not more than ten minutes to the cliffs. She weaves through the trees, blocking her face with her hand. She had told him to bring the flares with him when he hunts, had suggested radios or something for him to communicate with the others. Why hadn’t he agreed to it? Why was he so stubborn, so determined for the hunts to be authentic, real?
There’s a noise behind her. Something moves in the forest, darting through the trees. She turns, watching. With the sun going down they are only shadows at first, two of them cutting out on either side, circling her. Then she sees one man start over a log, approaching her from the front. He has the hunting rifle out. He looks directly at her, meeting her gaze, as he fires once into the center of her chest.
She falls back, the thick awning of leaves visible overhead. For only a few moments she’s still conscious, taking in the pink sky above the trees, then Michael’s face above hers. “What happened? What did you do?” she asks.
Michael turns to the other man, his voice rising in panic. “It wasn’t her; it wasn’t the girl. You just killed my wife.”
With her last breath, she realizes that her husband, her beloved husband, has not spent all these years hunting game on their private island. He’s been hunting people.
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CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THE HOSPITAL LOBBY is nearly empty. A light buzzes overhead. An older woman with a cane sits on a cushioned chair, her head hanging to one side, mouth open in sleep. In an office down the hall, someone is listening to a love song.
You keep your head down. You were able to withdraw cash off of Ben’s credit cards and you are wearing a new flowered dress that Izzy would hate. You have new glasses and your hair is pulled into a tight bun, the scar covered with a thin scarf. The nurse is reading a book on her desk, a fat paperback, and you walk past, hoping she doesn’t see. You’re several steps down the hall when she stops you.
“Excuse me? Where do you think you’re going?” She stands, hands on hips. She’s heavyset, nearly a foot taller than you, her curves filling out her pink scrubs. She twists her lips to one side, pouting.
“I’m looking for a girl who was shot,” you say. “She came in today.”
The woman shakes her head. “I don’t care who you’re looking for. It’s nearly ten o’clock.”
“Please,” you say. “I called. No one would tell me anything. I just need to know if she’s okay.”
You’ve tried to push the thought away, but you can’t—it keeps coming back, keeps flooding in every time you think of leaving. It’s possible they got to Izzy first. If she was discovered there, behind Goss’s house, they would’ve gotten rid of her body. The ambulance would’ve shown up and found only a dry patch of dirt.
“Please—I just need to know.”
She holds up one finger, silencing you. Then she writes down something on a piece of paper. She folds it, then holds it up. “Now I have the room number right here. But I’m going to need you to tell me her name. No one seems to know who this girl is.”
“So she’s okay?”
“For now.”
“And if I give you her name, will you let me see her?”
“I’ll give you ten minutes before I call the police. I don’t know what happened to that girl, but they’ve already been here trying to figure it out. I have a feeling they’d be interested in talking to you.”
“Izzy Clark,” you say. You root around your bag, feeling for the letter you wrote. You dropped the file from Goss’s house in the rush to get out, but you’ve written out everything that happened, naming A&A Enterprises, describing the secret compartment in the top of the closet. You’ve written everything they need to know.
The woman slips you the folded note. You set the envelope on the counter. You’ve written Celia Alvarez, LAPD on the front, hoping that it will eventually make its way to her. “This is for them, when they get here.”
Then you set off down the hall, unfolding the note. 701 is written, the numbers underlined twice. You walk along the edge of the wall, where the surveillance cameras don’t have as good an angle on you. Then you turn, climbing the stairs to avoid being seen.
When you get to Izzy’s room a nurse is there and you have to wait in the hall, just inside a linen closet, until she leaves. You can feel the minutes ticking away. You listen to the sounds of footsteps on the tile floor, making sure the hall is quiet before going back in.
Izzy is in bed. There are tubes everywhere. They snake around her, twisting up into a bag of fluid, hanging down beneath the metal bedframe. Her eyes are taped shut. Her skin is a dull gray color and it takes looking at the monitor, watching her pulse rise and fall, to remind you she’s alive.
You go to her, touching the top of her hand. Her skin feels papery and strange. The IV is stuck in, the blood sticky and wet beneath the clear tape. You can’t tell if she knows you’re there. You just talk, leaning down so she can hear.
“Mims should be here soon,” you say. “I’m so sorry you’ve been alone. I’m sorry about everything.”
You sit there, watching her chest rise and fall. You listen to each of her breaths and you can almost see Goss, the way he looked this afternoon when he shot her. You can picture him and Hilary in the photo. You remember his face more clearly than ever before.
The boy’s voice comes back: we’re not murderers. Somehow this time, you don’t believe him. All you can think of is Izzy, how sick and weak she looks now, like someone has drained the life out of her. You squeeze her hand once more before you go.
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CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
UNION STATION IS bustling with rush-hour foot traffic. Swarms of people push through the main hall. A woman with a massive suitcase bumps you fr
om behind. Another person swerves around you, mumbling something that could be directed at you, but maybe not. You don’t look up. You keep walking, moving toward one of the side lounges, where it’s less crowded. There are only fifteen minutes until the train leaves, but you know it’s enough time to be seen.
You check the train on the sign above, the letters and numbers flipping in place, shifting and rearranging as some arrive and depart. CHICAGO, IL. 11:15 P.M. ON TIME. It’ll be two days to get there, then six hours, then on to New York. In three days you’ll be in the city, stepping out into Penn Station, disappearing into the mass of people there. You want to believe they won’t find you, that they can’t. But you know it’s just a matter of time.
What did Ben know? What has he told them? You’ve tried to go through the past week, dissecting what you said to him, trying to figure out how you had missed it. Every moment seems false. How many times had he said that you were safe in that house? What did he know that you didn’t? Had it been the truth, or was it inevitable that they would’ve come for you there? Would he have let them? What was the point of keeping you alive? Was running away part of their plan—or was it something different, was it part of his?
A few people look up as you pass and you can’t tell if they’re looking at you or at the board above. You cover your face with the side of your hand, pretending to fix your hair. Fifteen minutes, you remind yourself. Just fifteen minutes more. Then you’ll be on the train, moving away from here.
All of the lounges are off the main corridor. You pass the first one, which has just a few empty seats. You pass the second, then the third, only stopping when you find the one that’s quietest, the least crowded. The chairs all face the wall. There are only three other people there. Two men absorbed in their phones, and a woman who has fallen asleep, her head propped up on her purse.
You grab a seat as far from them as possible, your back to the crowds that pass. It’s been an hour since you left the hospital. You’ve followed the time, thinking about the police officers opening the envelope, calling Izzy’s grandmother, Mims arriving at room 701. By now she should be there with her. By now they should have read your letter. They should be at Goss’s house, questioning him, looking for the compartment in his closet . . . if he hasn’t found a way to conceal it by now.
“The train to Chicago will begin boarding in five minutes,” an announcement says. A few people get up, some dragging bags behind them.
Across the aisle you notice a young guy curled up, sleeping beneath three of the seats. One of the men tucks away his phone and stands, rolling a small bag behind him. But the aisle is narrow and there isn’t enough room to pass.
“What are you doing under there? You’re blocking the path!” The man leans down and picks up his bag, mumbling something under his breath.
The guy pushes out, grabbing a pack from the floor beside him. He brushes himself off and stands. He plucks a ticket from his pocket. Then he turns his face up, trying to catch sight of the board. His eyes meet yours, and you are suddenly the only two people there. They’re his eyes—brown, liquid, and warm. His cheeks, his lips, which you’ve kissed a hundred times before, the top one dipping in a V. The two freckles on his right cheek. His hair is longer, covering his brows, but you’d know him anywhere.
The bottom of his shirt is ripped. His pants are covered with dirt. You look down at his right wrist and you can see it, peeking out behind a plastic watch. The square has its own number, its own symbol, though you can’t quite decipher what it is.
You watch him watching you, taking in your clothes, the sleek bun, the scarf around your neck. You pull back the leather wristband, showing him the tender skin on the inside of your wrist. You hold your hand so no one else can see.
“You,” he finally says. “It’s you.”
Then he smiles. Your skin prickles. You can barely breathe you feel so much for this person, this stranger, this boy from your dreams.
“You’re here,” you say as he comes toward you. “You’re real.”
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS BOOK WOULDN’T be possible without the support and care of several people. First and foremost, hugs and thank yous to everyone at Alloy Entertainment. To Les Morgenstein, for pushing the first chapters to another draft, which really made the voice sing. To Josh Bank, for all his love and enthusiasm for this project, and for those supportive tweets (you are the Walrus, goo goo goo joob). To Sara Shandler for all her meticulous line edits, for seeing the things we couldn’t, and for her smarts and patience in an eleventh hour revision. And to Joelle Hobeika, editor and friend, for her continual faith, support, and all around awesomeness. Thank you for talking me through said eleventh hour revision, assuring me the book would be better, that I was almost there, and that it would be worth it (it was).
To my editor at HarperCollins, Sarah Landis, for her patience and support while this book grew from those first few chapters into what it is now. You’ve loved it from page one and were the first to say: YES! Second person works! That meant so much. Gratitude to Kristin Marang, for helping me with all things digital. To Heather Schroder, agent and confidante, for her good work and guidance.
I’m grateful for the close friends who read the very first pages of this book, letting me know there was something there . . . even if I wasn’t quite sure what it was yet. Love and thanks to Lauren Kate Morphew, Aaron Kandell, and Allison Yarrow. To Amy Plum and Natalie Parker, who took time and care when they were busy with their own revisions to read mine. Special thanks to the inimitable Josie Angelini, superhero to YA novels everywhere, for the notes that inspired this last draft.
I’m lucky to have a wide network of friends and family who keep me sane and grounded when life is anything but. To the authors I’ve toured and traveled with—Veronica Rossi, Tahereh Mafi, and Cynthia Hand—I’m grateful to count you as friends. Much love and thanks to: Lanie Davis, Anna Gilbert, Jess Dickstein, Katie Sise, Jackie Fechtmann, Ally Corbett, Ali Mountford, Amy Hand, Dana Nichomoff, Laurie Weinert, Connie Hsiao, Deb Gross, Melva Graham, Talia Reyes, Priya Ollapally, and Corynne Steindler. As always, love to my family on the east coast for reading every book and cheering me on. To my brother, Kevin (this one is for you!), for growing into one of my closest friends. And to my parents, Tom and Elaine, for endless love and support. I can’t love you, or say thank you, enough.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANNA CAREY is the author of the Eve trilogy. She graduated from New York University and has an MFA in fiction from Brooklyn College. She lives in Los Angeles. Visit her online at www.annacareybooks.com.
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COPYRIGHT
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
BLACKBIRD. Copyright © 2013 by Alloy Entertainment and and Anna Carey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-0-06
-XXXXXX-X
EPub Edition March 2014 ISBN 9780062341501
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