“Where is he?” she asks, her voice shaking as if she’s already assuming the worst.
As my eyes adjust to the little light available, I slide my boots along the floor, careful not to step on anyone, making my way over to Apollo’s mother. I kneel in front of her and take her hand in mine. My throat tightens around a sob.
“No. No,” she growls. “Where is he?”
“The police—” I gasp for air.
“No,” she cries out again, more guttural and from deep within her gut.
“He shot him. He’s?—”
A cry like I’ve never heard another human make fills the room, echoing off the walls, slicing into my ears.
Tears barrel down my face as I squeeze her hand tighter, my chest bucking with sobs. “It’s my fault.” To take the blame, it’s all I can do for her.
“Wh—what did you do?” she croaks.
I didn’t have an answer prepared. “We climbed out of the—uh—the sewer tunnel. We were caught right away. I couldn’t save him. I was thrown against the wall; my head was spinning. It all happened so fast.”
“Apollo?” one of his sisters calls out. “Mama, what happened to my brother?”
I embrace the three of them, unsure what else I can do but hold them as tightly as I can, wishing there was a way to undo what has happened. If we had come out a few minutes sooner, we might not have been caught. But I was scared to leave and miss Ella. He died because of my selfishness.
NINETEEN
ELLA
The gestapo truck lurches to a stop, throwing all of us into each other and the unforgiving metal walls. I gasp for breath as if my lungs have given out upon impact. Around me, the sound of shuffling and sliding as everyone tries to straighten their position is punctuated by the glow of hollow eyes and pale faces from a dim light filtering in between the tears of the tarp over our heads.
Doors at the front of the truck open and slam closed in the seconds before the back is opened, and a hot burst of air filled with gaseous fumes swooshes around the inside of the truck, choking me.
“Raus!” a soldier barks at us, sending a jolt of terror through my veins.
Everyone shoves one another as if we’re in a race to jump out of the truck first. I want to hide in the dark corner where they might not see me, but it’s my attempts to defy these terrorizers that have led me here.
We spill out of the truck into an unruly line. My legs are shaking, and my arms feel like they’re weighed down even though it’s just my wrists bound with rope. I make it past one of the soldiers just as a thud against metal quakes around us. Oninstinct, I turn to see what happened, finding one of the men traveling with us flat in the bed of the truck.
“Stand! Get up!” a soldier yells at him before using the butt of his rifle to jab him in the head. I recoil as the man lets out a strangled cry.
I gaze around, seeking a familiar face—Arte—knowing he was captured, too. I spot him in the back of the group, his face baring despair but his jaw clenched tight. I want to call out to him, but that will only cause more trouble. The soldiers already saw enough of an interaction between us tonight. It can only be used against us, I’m sure.
All of us with our wrists bound by rope are shoved forward, across a dark yard toward a brick building with a small glowing window flush with the ground. Around me, all I hear is gravel crunching beneath boots or people like me tripping over their own feet. Sweat covers me from head to toe, making my arms itch and scratch against the sharp rope. My heart thuds with a sharpness and the fear building within me is taking over. I should have listened to Miko. He wanted to protect me, but I thought I knew better. Arte too—he tried to save me before it was too late, and I wouldn’t listen.
We reach the building just as a soldier begins to shout more orders, splitting us up into smaller groups, the moment Arte and I are separated and sent in different directions. There are only a few of us going in the same direction as me, down a narrow hallway lined with stone walls. We descend a set of uneven stairs into another dark space with a glow in the distance. With people on either side of me, I continue forward through damp air reeking of mildew.
The glow comes from a bare room with two light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, subtly swaying back and forth. A soldier takes my arm and yanks me down to one side of theroom, shoving me onto a wooden chair. The other few people are taken to opposite ends of the room, out of hearing range.
My throat is so dry, I can’t swallow and I’m shivering though I’m sweltering. Another soldier in a more decorated uniform, one with pressed pleats and shined boots, clicks his heels with each heavy step before stopping in front of me, where he hovers.
I can’t see his eyes beneath the shadow of his cap but there are scars above his lip and across his nose.
“Name?” he presses.
I consider lying, but my papers are in my pocket. “Ella Bosko.”
“And who do you work for?” the soldier asks, his voice calm, unnerving, and yet, I’m confident that would change within a blink.
“No one, I swear. I’m not part of anything or working with anyone.” My voice is hoarse from breathing so heavily throughout the ride here and the walk into this building.
