I’ve heard muffled yells through the walls, Trips’ anger so close to the surface that I’m terrified for him. There’s nothing I can do about it, not right now, but I worry he’s breaking. I know I’m getting close myself.
Lying on the floor, waiting for the shadows on the ceiling to create a story, there’s a click at the door. I hop to my feet, hope so heavy in my chest that I’m half-ready to lay back down from the weight of it. The door swings open, Falk at the threshold.
“Hi,” I say, my voice cracking from lack of use, thrilled to see anyone.
Falk glances at the scratched patterns on the wall, then at my disheveled self. “You’re a runner, right? Like track and marathons?”
I nod, wondering why he’s asking.
“Get changed. We’re going out.”
I’m dressed and in the hallway so quickly I’m surprised I don’t hurt myself, Falk silently leading me out the front of the estate. I follow him onto a path in the woods, the same one that Trips had brought me down last winter. The one that finally convinced me we needed to run and regroup, our problems too big to solve while broken—both inside and out.
“Is it safe to talk?” I pant after a few minutes, the need for human interaction as necessary as the fresh air around me.
He glances at me. “Probably, but you never can be sure.” His face gets strangely calm. “How are you feeling about what happened with Smith?”
That’s definitely not a topic I want to talk about, but I don’t want to risk getting sent back to the house. “How do you think I’m feeling?” I ask, hoping that the redirect will keep me from having to share too much with a stranger.
“Like shit.” He’s silent as he winds deeper into the trees, the clearing from last winter impossible to pinpoint in the never-ending branches, the autumn leaves crunching under our feet. “I’d like to say the first kill is the worst, but that’s not always true. Sometimes, the worst is the worst.”
“I’m not sure I want to rack up the number of kills that earns you that granular level of knowledge,” I manage, my cardio pretty damn miserable after the last two plus months of my incarceration.
Five months of confinement for a lifetime of freedom.
A price I am happy to pay.
He doesn’t answer as we break into a gap in the trees, following the wall for a while before he finds another windingpath in the woods to duck into. “I didn’t think you’d do it,” he says once we’re deep amongst the falling leaves.
“What would have happened if I hadn’t?”
“Smith would have been dead regardless of your actions. Your pink-haired friend would be in jail. If we could find her, that is. We haven’t spotted her on campus. For what it’s worth, she’s frighteningly competent for somebody who hasn’t trained as a medic. Oh, and if your blond boyfriend pops up anywhere, he’s going to jail, too. Unless he has the boss’s blood-type. Then I can’t guarantee his outcome.”
“His liver isn’t up for grabs,” I state.
His gaze is dark as he glances at me. “Nobody’s should be.” He switches to a lighter tone, and I know he’s fishing. He’s not on our side. I have to remember that. “Do you know where the two of them disappeared to?”
That’s a question I can answer clearly, joy springing bright behind my ribs—Jansen didn’t end up in the hospital. “I have no idea where they are.”
His next question is quiet, like we’re sharing secrets. “How are you communicating with them? How did he know there’d be trouble with Smith?”
I choke out a laugh that turns into a coughing fit as I try to catch my breath, my lungs aching from lack of use. “Jansen doesn’t plan. He just does shit and hopes for the best. It’s freeing, and one of his most endearing traits. Most of the time, anyway.” I allow myself a small smile, content that at least for now, he’s healing. Otherwise, Falk wouldn’t ask where he is.
“It looked like a plan. He saved your life.”
“He almost lost his life. That’s not a plan.”
We run out of tree cover, and jog into an open expanse by the lake, the water green with end-of-season algae. At least Trips’ dad still bows to the whims of nature.
Falk and I stay silent, my legs burning as we circle the large lawn. But when he leads me toward one of the many entrances to the rose garden, my feet stop. Even with most of the late-season roses giving up, their faded rosehips perched at the end of spiked branches, no scent in the air, I’m not sure I can go in there, not right now. Courtesy of Bryce’s favorite apology gift, I’ll never love roses. But after killing a man surrounded by them?
I’m not going in there. Not if I can help it.
Falk halts when he sees I’m no longer following.
“Can we go another way?” My heart thunders, not because of the run. I force myself to keep breathing, an anxiety attack a weakness I can’t have in this house. Not without major repercussions.
Falk looks over his shoulder at the densely packed bushes, but he turns around, going back in the direction we came from. Once we’re safely in the woods, he speaks first, my heart and breath still wonky, the scent of fallen leaves helping keep me present.
