“Do you really think we’ll be all right here?” he asks.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “You’ve done enough for us.”
He laughs. “I know I don’t have to. That’s not what I asked. This girl … She’s not like that other woman, right? The one who killed the doctor?”
I meet his eyes, refusing to lie to him.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Jackson scratches his head, surveying the house. After a long moment, he shrugs. “Fuck it,” he says recklessly. And then he holds out his arm to me so I can help him limp inside.
2
Imogene is nowhere in sight when I get Jackson inside the house. I bring him to lean against the kitchen counter, and then I go over to talk to Sydney and Annalise at the dining room table. Quentin sits uncomfortably on the stiff-looking couch near the fireplace. He puts his finger under his nose.
“It smells nasty in here,” he comments. “Is that burnt plastic?”
Sydney shrugs and taps my hand, subtly nodding toward Annalise.
We both turn that way, finding Annalise rubbing her right temple. It’s strange to look at her now, how different she is. Her new eye is brown while the other is green. The deep cuts across her face are shiny ridges, piecing her together, changing her facial structure. But she is still Annalise.
And to prove it, she sighs and says, “Smells more like rotten garbage to me. We’re leaving first thing in the morning or I’ll puke.”
“Where do we go?” Sydney asks quietly. “How do we find the corporation?”
“Our parents?” I ask. Sydney flinches at my use of the word.
“Stop calling them that,” she murmurs.
“What was the card that Leandra gave you?” Annalise asks me, setting her elbows on the table. “Just before we left the academy, she handed you something.”
I’d forgotten about the card. I reach into my pocket until I feel the pointed edge of the rectangular card. I take it out and look it over. “It’s a business card,” I say, holding it out to Annalise. “For Winston Weeks.”
Annalise examines it, but when she’s done, she says nothing and hands it back.
“So we’re on our own?” Sydney asks.
“No,” I say. “We’re with each other. But we can’t trust anyone else.”
“What about this Imogene person?” Jackson asks, startling me. I look back over my shoulder to find him still at the counter, listening to us.
“Definitely not,” Sydney says. Surprised, I turn to her. “You don’t think it’s weird that she’s just sitting alone in her house at four a.m. drinking wine?” she asks.
“To be fair,” I say, “we showed up at four a.m. covered in blood, so I’m not sure we can judge.”
“Where’s her husband?” Sydney asks. “And why won’t she fight? She said she was content. No one who read those poemswould claim to be content. She should be fighting for all of us. Not just thinking about herself.”
“And why is she married in the first place?” Quentin calls from the couch. We all look at him, but no one answers. He doesn’t know the truth about the academy. None of us jump to explain it.
Jackson shifts, moaning when he does. He reaches down to rub his leg.
“And what are you going to do about that?” Quentin asks him impatiently. “At least get some ice on it.”
“It’s nothing,” Jackson says.
“Uh-huh,” Quentin says. “You should probably go to the hospital, but fine, be a stubborn ass. You’re gonna end up there, regardless. Sit in pain—great fucking plan, Jackie.”
Jackson smiles. “Yeah, man. Love you too.”
