What if he was right?
I look around at the other girls, and they each seem to be processing the idea that we might run out of time.
“It’s not true,” Annalise announces, sounding confident. “I haven’t seen anything like that in my research. Raven didn’t mention it when she downloaded my programming, and she would have noticed. And let’s be honest, Dr. Groger would have used that little tidbit to keep us from killing him.”
She has a point. The girls and I let that comfort us for a moment, ignoring the part where a man is dead. He would have manipulated us with the information, that’s for sure. Jackson must have read the paperwork wrong. Or perhaps the plan was never enacted.
“What else?” Marcella asks impatiently. “What else happened today?”
“Well … ,” I start, “I met someone.”
I go on to tell the girls about Rosemarie and her offer. Who she is. How she got inside my head, and how she’s secretly working with Lennon Rose. They are, to say the least, shocked.
But we’re all concerned that we don’t fully understand Rosemarie’s intent, her potential for violence. We can’t comprehend her endgame. And we don’t quite trust it.
“I can’t believe Winston Weeks has a mother,” Marcella murmurs.
Brynn motions to the book on my lap. “Mena,” she says. “Is that the second book?”
“It is, but I haven’t opened it yet,” I reply, my nerves ratcheting up. I’m scared to read it.
“Do you think there’s coding in her words?” Brynn asks. “I mean, she designed us, so do you think she did something to affect us specifically?”
“I don’t think it’s code,” Annalise interjects. “If it was, it would have changed all the girls who read it in the same way.”
“My guess is it instigated change,” Marcella adds. “A catalyst for a mind that was already heading in that direction. I don’t think it has the power on its own. It needs a willing host.”
“Host?” Sydney repeats. “You make it sound like a parasite.”
“Could be, I guess,” Marcella says with a shrug. “An idea that grows, taking over the thoughts of the person housing it. Especially ideas of violence or prejudice—those grow like parasites.”
“But?” I ask, hoping for some good news.
“Like I said, it’s a catalyst,” she says. “If you weren’t already prejudiced, racist words wouldn’t attract you. If you didn’t already hate women, misogynist words wouldn’t interest you. The same can be said about violence.”
“The last poems were violent,” Brynn adds.
We all fall quiet, and I look down at the book.
“Should we read it, then?” I ask. “Do we take the chance?”
“Definitely,” Marcella says. “We have each other.”
When I pause again, Marcella holds out her hand.
“Let me do it,” she says. I give the book over to her, and we all scoot closer, breaths held as we get ready to listen. Marcella opens the front cover and starts reading.
It’ll Be Okay
It will be okay, he said. It will be fine.
Those were the words he whispered to my tears.
But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t fine.
They came for us, came for the women,
The girls.
