“Imogene used to laugh too loudly,” I say. “It used to drive the old Guardian mad.”
When I try to smile at the memory, there is a sharp pain in myjaw. It’s swollen from when the Guardian punched me. Before we killed him. I shiver at the thought of his body on my bedroom floor.
“What made you think of Imogene?” I ask. “She’s never even attended an open house at the school.”
“I don’t know,” Marcella says, reading something on the phone. “She just popped into my head. Anyway, she got married this year. I overheard one of the parents—” She stops abruptly. “Overheard one of theinvestorsmention her,” she corrects. “Husband’s last name was Portman.” Marcella’s shoulders droop, and she turns the phone screen toward me.
“Found him,” she says somberly.
The picture is of Nes Portman, a much-older business mogul. His gray hair is combed over a balding scalp, his skin pocked and his teeth yellowed. But it’s not his physical appearance that causes my heart to sink. It’s the way his eyes are narrowed, the menace in them. The cruelty in them. I’ve seen that look before. When I turn to Marcella, she nods like she can feel the dread too.
“What are you suggesting?” I ask her.
“We go to a girl,” she replies. “We go to a girl because we know she’ll help us. We stick together, no matter what. And Imogene … She’s one of us. I know it.”
“You think she’s awake?” Sydney asks in a hushed voice, sitting forward.
“I do,” Marcella replies.
“But how do you know?” Brynn asks. “She could still be brainwashed. She’s probably never seen the poems.”
The poems. The catalyst that woke us up, inspired us to fight back. Brynn’s right; how would Imogene overwrite her programming without them?
“Not to mention,” Brynn continues. “Her husband could be giving her pills from the academy. We have no idea if she’d be on our side.”
“We don’t know for sure,” Marcella agrees, running her hand lovingly down Brynn’s arm. “But I can feel it. It’s like …” She pauses. “It’s like I can hear her, just like Valentine said she could hear the roses.” Marcella winces, not wanting to say things like this out loud. From the passenger seat, Quentin turns around to examine us.
“Did you all hit your heads or something?” he asks.
Annalise sits up and stares back at him. “I got a lamp smashed in my face,” she says calmly. “Does that count?”
Quentin’s dark complexion dulls slightly as he looks over her scars. But then he nods, acknowledging them. Seeing them. Annalise winks her green eye at him, and he smiles and turns around in his seat.
“So we’re going to find this Imogene person?” Jackson asks. “Is there an address?”
Marcella reads it to him before handing the phone to Quentin. When she sits back, the girls and I all look at each other. We don’t want to think too much just yet. We don’t want to let the pain in. Because once we do … we’ll have to truly accept what we are.
We’ll have to admit that we’re not human. And that everything we’ve ever known was a lie.
Jackson pulls up to a mansion, the kind we used to see in the action movies the Guardian would show us. The sort of house that always belonged to the villain. One side is all windows, looking over an expansive yard. It’s modern and misshapen with wood accents. It’s beautiful in a sterile, uncomfortable way.
“I’m scared,” Brynn says quietly. “What if Imogene’s not here? What if her husband is?”
We all stare at the house. It’s four in the morning, but a small light is on in the kitchen. The blinds are down, but open just enough for me to see a blond-headed figure sitting at the table.
“I think that’s her,” I whisper, pointing her out to the others.
“Why is she up this late?” Jackson asks. “Or early, I guess.”
“I’m not sure,” I say, sensing that something is off. I scan the property, surprised there are no guards, no bars on the windows. She’s not a prisoner. That should be a good sign.
“I think I’ll wait out here,” Quentin says. “Keep an eye on things.”
“I’ll wait with you,” Annalise offers. When I turn to her, she waves her hand. “My ears are still ringing,” she adds. Although the words come out with ease, there’s a heaviness in Annalise’s voice.
She was murdered tonight, and then brought back to life by Leandra Petrov—the wife of the headmaster at Innovations Academy. Annalise was dead, and I suspect the pain of that goes beyond ringing ears. She settles back in the seat as the other girls and I get out of the car.
I wrap my arm around Jackson’s waist and help him limp toward the house. His leg is possibly broken; he injured himselfwhen he foolishly climbed the academy fence. He’s pretending it doesn’t hurt, but he flashes his teeth in pain every time he puts weight on his leg.
