Something breaks in my throat. I get up and stagger to the bathroom, sink to my knees, and vomit into the toilet until my stomach is empty. I rest my head on the cold lid, eyes squeezed shut, and let the silence press in. I try to imagine her final moments.
Did she jump? Did they push her? Was she alive when the water closed over her head? Did she even drown or was that just a place for her body to rest?
I want to believe she fought. I want to believe she made it hurt.
Stopping for a moment, I look around my room.
It looks like I’ve lost my mind.
Vivienne’s parents, Colton’s, all of them tangled in the same ugly root system. The alumni list is a who’s-who of monsters. Every runner in the Hunt is hand-picked. Every “scholarship” is a setup.
I scribble notes in the margins of the printouts, red pen slashing across the paper. When the pen dries up, I switch to pencil, then a marker when I snap that in half, then whatever I can find. There are arrows, circles, exclamation points. There are whole paragraphs underlined twice.
I stop when the sun sets.
The room is freezing. My fingers ache from typing and highlighting and note-taking, but the worst part is the fatigue behind my eyes. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. I won’t, not until I finish.
My heart shatters as it hits deeper…
The scholarship was never real. My application was just a formality. They were always going to let me in, always going to push me toward the Hunt, always going to watch and see if Isurvived. It’s not a test. It’s a blood sport. And the only thing that matters is what I do next.
I look at the photo of my mother. Her smile is brighter in the morning light, but the fear is still there, just under the surface. I trace her outline with my finger.
If they want to erase me, they’re going to have to try harder.
I close my eyes, and let the anger settle into something cold and sharp.
I am my mother’s daughter. But the only difference is…
I’m not running.
Chapter 12: Colton
Ihaven’tseenherin two weeks. She’s been holed up in here and the Board, in their infinite fucking wisdom, have kept me busy with paperwork. Anytime I had a moment, I tried to get her to let me in and she flat out ignored me.
So here I am. Just past midnight. Climbing the metal steps up to her window. The fire escape is ancient, welded onto the brick with the kind of optimism only architects have. It groans at the first touch, but it doesn’t deter me.
Her window is three flights up, east side. No camera on this angle, the lens at the corner obscured by the overgrown holly that blocks the view for everyone but the gardeners. I reach the landing and crouch in the shadow.
I shift the weight of my backpack. It’s military, with leather straps. Strong. Sturdy. Inside: a white dress with long sleeves, warm enough to keep the chill off her when she runs tomorrow and a pair of naked feet running shoes in her size.
Unlike my brothers, I don’t want my girls feet to get ripped up.
The window is open. Not even latched. She left it like that. On purpose, or carelessness? I can’t tell anymore. I lean in, slow, waiting for the catch in the frame that snags. There’s no resistance. It’s like she wanted me to come.
I slide inside and let my eyes adjust. Her room is unlit, but there’s a dim light from under the door. I freeze, listening. She’s not awake, but there’s a pattern to her breathing—too shallow, then too deep, the cycle of someone who can’t escape her head.
I cross the floor and stop when I hear paper rip. Under my boot: a page, then two, then an entire continent of printouts. The surface of the room is gone, replaced by research. Every wall is taped with newspaper scans, photos, e-mails, ripped up pieces of official stationary.
There’s a DNA analysis pinned to the closet, the bands highlighted in neon pink, “PATERNITY: CONFIRMED” circled three times in black Sharpie. A yearbook photo of Harrington. Another of him shaking hands with Steele at some dedication ceremony. Another photo, more recent, shows the two of them at a gala, faces set in hard lines.
A map of the campus is spread across the desk, every possible escape route marked in three colors of ink. Red string links building to building, names to names, dates to times.
It’s obsessive. It’s impressive.
Notebooks litter the desk. I pick one up: the handwriting is frantic, slanted so hard the words tilt off the page. Every line is an argument with herself, a running conversation between fear and fury. She’s somehow got ahold of the Board’s home addresses, the rotations of campus security, the signal schedule for the fire alarms. She’s written my name nine times on the inside cover, each time darker, deeper, like she’s pressing the point through the paper and into her bones.
Jesus Christ.
