We pause at the stairs of the front porch and check the area. Jackson leans against the railing as Sydney comes to talk to me. She reaches to hold my arm, and I put my hand over hers, immediately comforted by her touch.
We’re in danger. Leandra told us the professors and her husband would never stop looking for us. We need to get somewhere safe, but we’re tired and hurt; we’re devastated and confused. We’reangry.But we need a minute to think.
Jackson turns to us. “I should go to the door alone,” he says.
Marcella laughs. “We don’t need you to save us,” she tells him. “Besides, Imogene will know to trust us.”
“I’m not trying to save you,” Jackson says. “You’re perfectly capable of knocking on a door. What I’m suggesting is you let me do it because I’m not soaked in blood and immediately recognizable as an escaped girl. What if her husband answers?”
Marcella tilts her head, thinking it over. “Yeah, okay,” she says, and steps aside.
We all get onto the porch, and I leave Jackson at the door as the girls and I stand off to the side. Jackson knocks softly, favoring his uninjured leg. I watch him as he waits there. He runs his hand through his dark hair, haphazardly trying to brush it aside, but it’s still a mess. He’s a mess. But he’s in markedly better shape than any of us. He doesn’t have literal blood on his hands from someone he murdered.
At the thought, I open and close my palm, feeling the stickiness left there from Guardian Bose’s blood, dried but still tacky. I’m coated in it; I’m coated in guilt.
The light clicks on above us on the porch, and the girls and I shift farther into the shadows. The door opens a sliver, but I can’t see who’s behind it. Jackson gulps audibly.
“Hi, uh …” His voice cracks. “I’m looking for Imogene. Are you Imogene?”
“He is not smooth,” Marcella points out. I put my finger to my lips to tell her to be quiet.
“Who are you and what do you want?” The voice is distinctly Imogene’s. I recognize it on a level I wasn’t expecting, something connecting and visceral. Without thinking, I step around the corner and into the light. The door opens wider.
The woman standing there is impossibly thin, her jaw muscles protruding, her eyes sunken in. Although I knew her voice, it takes me a moment to recognize the woman—the girl—and my hands start to tremble.
Imogene’s eyes are ringed with dark circles, like she’s vitamin deficient. Sleep-deprived. She’s wrapped in a fluffy white robe, but as she lifts a wineglass to her lips, I see that her hands are stained a deep pink. She runs her eyes down my clothing, pausing to examine the blood. There is a ghost of a smile on her lips before she opens the door completely.
“I used to dream of seeing the girls again,” she says. “Figures it would bethisday.” Imogene’s hair is in a messy ponytail, the ends of her damp blond hair a reddish color.
Marcella and I exchange a worried look as she and the other girls come out from the shadows. Imogene turns to walk inside, barefoot on a gray slate floor, and we follow her. Despite the impressive size of the entry, the house is stark and made entirely of concrete and hard surfaces.
As Marcella, Sydney, and Brynn come inside with me, Jackson hangs by the door. When I turn to him, he nods that I should go ahead. He has a strange expression, and I suddenly realize that he’s scared of Imogene. She’s like us; she’s a machine. And maybe he thinks she’s dangerous—that we’re all dangerous. It hurts my feelings, but I acknowledge his ask and turn away as he heads back to the car.
“I thought there’d be more of you,” Imogene says, going to the kitchen counter to refill her glass of wine from a green bottle. “In my dreams there were more of us.”
“Do you know why we’re here?” Marcella asks, studying her. “Do you know the truth about us? About the academy?”
Imogene takes a moment to examine each of us, pausing to study the bruises on Sydney’s neck and the blood on our clothes.
“What I know,” she starts, “is that my boarding school sold me to an evil man. I realized he would eventually kill me. And after I went to Anton about it and was turned away, I was contacted by Leandra Petrov.” Imogene takes a big gulp of wine and sets it down. “Leandra told me what we are. Which is, I’m assuming, why you’re here. You want to know more about our programming.”
“Doyouknow about our programming?” I ask. “Because we just found out tonight. And—”
Imogene holds up her hand to stop me. “I’ve only known for a few days,” Imogene says. “Just long enough.”
“Long enough for what?” Sydney asks. Just then, I notice Brynn glancing around, her nostrils flaring. It’s then that I smell it too. Something floral and thick, but under that is an acrid scent, something old or rotten.
“For me to make things right,” Imogene says. “Considering the state of you, I’m guessing you need a place to hide. You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you need to.” She glances at the door. “But not the boy.”
I lower my eyes, wondering if I can leave Jackson behind.
“Thank you, Imogene,” Marcella says. She smiles at her as Brynn wanders into the living room, staring at the black-tiled fireplace. Imogene watches her curiously before turning back to us. She leans her elbows on the counter, and when she does, her sleeve falls down her arm and we see the bruises wrapping her wrists like bracelets.
Before we can ask if she’s okay, Imogene motions to Sydney’s neck. “Are you in any pain?” she asks.
Sydney shakes her head no, although I’m sure she’s lying. I’m in a lot of pain. So much, in fact, it’s a constant struggle to keep my thoughts straight.
“If you change your mind,” Imogene says, “I can help. My husband kept an emergency repair kit in his closet.” She bares her teeth. “You know, for myaccidents.”
