Krys coughed and then sat back on his heels. “Where’s your family?”
No response.
After a moment of silence, Atticus looked around. “We can’t stay here; the smoke will bring out the fire department when someone notices. We’ll take the boy with us and find out where he comes from.”
“I’ll go where I wanna go,” the kid said while standing up. “And… I’m not a boy.”
When Atticus took a minute to study her, he realized his error. His flawed assumption had been based on her short hair.Now he noticed her feminine face, slender fingers, and other small nuances that suggested her gender might be female.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Fourteen.”
Krys’s eyes glinted angrily.
Her hollow cheeks, flat chest, bony limbs, and pasty complexion were all signs of malnutrition and neglect. But fourteen? It made Atticus wish he hadn’t tuned out those dying screams. This was no place for anyone, let alone a child.
With his clothes still smoldering, Krys stood and spoke privately to Atticus. “We didn’t plan for a kid.”
“Be that as it may, we can’t leave her.”
“Then charm her and find out where her family is.”
While Atticus didn’t like erasing a child’s memories, extracting information was entirely different.
When he approached the girl, she hopped behind Krys and clutched his arm.
Krys scowled at Atticus. “You might wanna clean off your face first, Dracula.”
Atticus wiped the blood from his mouth, but it was pointless. It was everywhere. “What’s your name? We’re not part of that group, so you have nothing to fear.”
She glanced back at smoke pouring through the door. “You almost let me burn up in there. What if you’re with them?”
Atticus bowed. “I’m Atticus Rain. And we’re not with them.”
She stepped away from Krys and crossed her arms. It dawned on Atticus that she must have been cold.
“Krys, give her your shirt.”
“You got the long-sleeve,” he said.
“It’s soaked in blood.”
Krys stripped off his white T-shirt and handed it to her.
The girl held it out and stared at the smiling sun, then gave Krys a skeptical glance. After putting it on over her gown, she tugged nervously on her earlobe.
Atticus approached and caught her gaze. He reeled her in and held her mind. “Tell me your name.”
“I don’t know.”
“Where do you come from?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fuck. Her memory was scrubbed.” Krys reached down and threw a rock across the parking lot.
There was no undoing a memory wipe—not unless she regained pieces of it on her own. Atticus could scrub her memory of this place, but then she’d be left with nothing. If they turned her over to the authorities, she would reveal what took place and, more specifically, describe Atticus and Krys.
