“Neither is discussing it in the hallway,” the injured woman says. “Let’s just go.”
I lift my head up at the sound of their retreating footsteps, and Wyatt urges me forward with a hand on my lower back. We move past the security guard’s office, and the employee on duty has his feet propped up on the desk while leaning back in his chair as he absently watches the cameras with a cup of juice resting on top of his bulging belly.
While they have all the expected security measures in place, the attitude seems fairly lax. I suspect that’s because no one knows about this place, and everyone’s too fucked up to escape.
Wyatt opens the door to the cafeteria, guiding me to my usual table, alongside the younger residents. I sit down as a waitress slides a bowl of oatmeal with dried fruit in front of me. Wyatt fetches a glass of orange juice for me before walking to the staff table to join his colleagues.
I take a quick glance at the redheaded girl on my left and the dark-haired boy sitting across from me, but they’re as comatose as ever.
Seriously, it’s like I’ve walked onto the set of a horror movie where everyone is pale with these wide eyes and drooping jawlines and the only sounds out of their mouths are these ghostly, ghoulish sounds that give me a mad case of the heebie-jeebies.
I wonder how long I’d have to be here before I’d turn into that.
Or maybe theirsupposedcrimes are worse, and that’s why my punishment isn’t as severe.
Although, if this is an elite facility, I doubt anyone in here has done anything worth punishing.
They probably just outlasted their usefulness.
Most likely, I’m being treated differently because my incarceration has an end date. I wouldn’t be much good to that bastard all fucked up in the head, so I’m pretty sure whatever I’m being given isn’t as severe as most of these people. Otherwise, there’s no way I would’ve been capable of continuing my studies.
“Eat.” The matron chastises me as she passes by, patrolling the aisles as usual.
Without hesitation, I lift my spoon and shovel a mouthful of gloopy oatmeal, ignoring how it clings to the roof of my mouth and makes me want to throw up.
When I’ve finished eating, Wyatt escorts me to the room where my tutor is waiting. Although there are at least a dozen teenagers here, I appear to be the only one who attends classes, which is another odd anomaly.
Miss Dunbar is an excellent teacher but a lousy subject for manipulation. I tried working on her the first few days, but she didn’t bite, and I gave up before she became suspicious. She did, however, let it slip last week that she wouldn’t be available for two days as she was traveling home for Thanksgiving.
Which answered the question of how long I’ve been here.
My fake engagement party to Charlie occurred six days before Halloween, and I know Thanksgiving is late this year, on the twenty-eighth, so that means I’ve been here five weeks.
That’s five weeks of my life I’ll never get back.
And five weeks where no one has come for me.
Confirming what I’ve always known—I’m in this alone.
I’m wearing the standard issue uniform when Wyatt slips into my room, locking the door behind him, on Friday night after his shift is over. I have no clothes or personal possessions, which is unfortunate, because trying to flee in my resident’s uniform isn’t ideal.
“Did you turn the cameras off?” I ask, sitting down on the bed and patting the space beside me.
He takes off his jacket, flinging it on the back of the chair. “Yes. You were right. John was snoring at the desk, and he didn’t even notice me slipping the virus into the system. How did you even know how to do that?” he asks, sitting beside me and sliding his arm around my waist.
I’d given Wyatt a link to a site where I knew he could download a basic virus that would do the job. “One of my best friends is a hacker, and he taught me a few tricks.”
If anyone has the power to find me, it’s Xavier. The fact he hasn’t shown up worries me to no end. Either I’m too well hidden or there’s no way of getting me out without detection or something has happened to him. I’m hoping it’s number two, but thoughts it could be number three have kept me awake some nights.
“Did you bring the bourbon?” I inquire.
He nods, looking unsure, and I hope he will not back out. I press in close to his side, flicking my hair over my shoulder. “What’s wrong, baby?”
Gag.
“I could get fired for this.”
Great. Another crisis of conscience. This would be easier if I was wearing a sexy dress and heels and doused in expensive perfume with a full face of makeup and my hair professionally styled.
