I pull out the next metal sheet. One side is blank, but the other side is Briar’s shoulders and the top of her torso. She’s wearing the green cocktail gown from when we were filming the introduction scene with the brothers. It’s got a clip at the top, which fits into a small gap in the bottom of the first metal sheet, locking the two of them together.
“This is so much worse than fan mail,” Briar says, holding the printed cutout of herself beside her head so Harlee and I can compare the two.
“Mr. Smith must’ve had these made before he cancelled the show,” Harlee says, collecting the rest of Briar from the box. Under Briar is Harlee, and under Harlee is me.
“So creepy.” I study my face. The photo must have been taken early on the first day, because I’m wearing my professional smile—the one I haven’t bothered with since I found out we’d been abducted. There are indentations under my eyes, despite my best efforts to cover them with concealer, which is the only indication that I’d recently been woken from my drug-induced sleep. Not that I’d known it at the time. Actually…
I inspect my bare arms, and sure enough—there’s the red pinprick left over from the intravenous drip Smith and Chloe forced into me.
I drop the pieces of myself back into the box as if they burned me. Briar and Harlee follow suit, and we close the lid, stuffing it to the back of the pantry, as if it doesn’t exist.
“What were you saying?” Harlee asks as we traipse back into the main part of the kitchen. “Before. You’re worried about something?”
“Oh, yeah.” I flop into my seat. “It was just something Chloe said to me that’s been messing with my head. It’s nothing important.”
I’ve seen the way Killan looks at you.He doesn’t want you to leave.
“Chloe?” Briar mock-gags on the other woman’s name. “Why were you talking to her?”
I shrug. I’m going to sound insane if I say anything about suspecting Killan having feelings for me. I’m continually doubting myself as it is.
It’s not as if him saying that he doesn’t not like my company is a confession of love. It wouldn’t even translate to a four-star review on Google.
“Well, what’d she say?” Briar presses, her hatred of Chloe as transparent as window glass.
I wave a dismissive hand. “Something about Killan being wrong about the Guild. That it actually would be able to help us find Earth if we asked it to.”
“That’s got to be a lie,” Harlee agrees. “Roan has told me all about the Guild. It’s supposed to be the outer space version of police, but how are a few aliens possibly supposed to police entire galaxies?” She shakes her head. “No way can it know where every single planet is.”
“Agreed.” Briar bangs her fist against the palm of her other hand, a makeshift judge’s gavel. “Chloe’s the real bitch, and she was trying to manipulate you. Forget her.”
“You’re right. I know.” I straighten, stretching my back, as my thoughts take another U-turn to once again obsess about the Freighter parked outside, because I’ve suddenly remembered why the Crocodile Guy’s expression had looked familiar. Smith used to look at Briar like that—like he wasn’t seeing a real person but a person-sized dollar sign.
No wonder Killan had sent Harlee and Briar away.
“I’ll be right back,” I mutter. “Bathroom.” And I hurry downstairs.
The door to Chloe’s bedroom is shut. No surprise there. But when I knock, she doesn’t answer.
“Chloe, please tell me you’re not planning something stupid,” I call, although not loud enough that my voice will carry back to the kitchen. “I don’t think hitchhiking on that Freighter is a good idea.”
Again, there’s no answer.
“Chloe? Are you there?” I reach for the handle, but surely I’m worrying for nothing. There’s no way she’ll be able to creep past Briar, Harlee, and me, or past the three brothers to get onto that spaceship. She’d be stupid to try. And Chloe might be nasty, but she isn’t stupid.
Chapter Thirteen
Nine hours later
Killan
“Chloe’s gone.”
My eyes snap open, Lydia’s comment icy water tipped over my head. She is standing beside me, hands on hips and glaring. I had been so close to falling asleep at the kitchen table, where the remains of my evening meal still sit, that I hope I misheard.
“What did you say?” My voice is groggy. Fek, I’m tired.
Lydia has not spoken to me since our last argument, eight days ago. I took the not-so-subtle hint to heart and kept away, working even later into the night than usual to make extra sure she was asleep by the time I stumbled, exhausted, into our shared bed. Then, in the mornings, I woke up before her and snuck away again.
