“Shit,” Atlas says under his breath when a text chimes on his phone.
Conin and I glance at each other in apprehension. Atlas inquires if he can change the channel. He clicks through a few before settling on a local news station. Pure dread blankets the room. Photos of me and Conin transition into the other and I know, webothknow, who’s responsible for this.
Joyce Bresshet. I’ve never met another worrier like her.
“If you see these two, please contact the local police,” the news reporter says before the segment changes.
“Ah, so you’re a blonde,” Atlas says.
“We’ve received word about recent investigations on a car that mysteriously caught fire outside Tooele on I-80. It is believed the Chrysler exploded because of fluid leakage or an overheatedcatalytic converter. Forensics has reported that no bodies were found in or outside the immediate proximity of the car. It is also said that whoever was driving the vehicle fled the site and failed to report the accident to the proper authorities. No further information has been provided at this time. Now, back to you John.”
Every drop of blood has fled my face. Conin doesn’t seem any better than I am. He stares at the television, blanched paper-white, far after the segment’s end. Atlas takes a seat on the rocking chair.
“I texted ma and asked if she watched the entire segment on you two. I’ll let you know what she says,” Atlas informs us. But we’re not listening. How could we?
“There was no mention of Mara,” Conin says. I noticed that too, and it doesn’t sit well with me. It doesn’t sit well with me at all.
“What happened to her?” Atlas questions.
Conin hesitates. There’s that disconnect, the buildup in his decision, but it’s clear when he caves into confiding in Atlas.
“I shot her. I saw her go down. It wasn’t certain whether she had died or not, but it seems now that she got away,” Conin mutters. The relief on his face is evident. I hope that this takes away part of what was burdening Conin.
“It’s a good thing you disguised yourself,” the boy says. “Let’s see if it’s effective.”
Another text alerts on Atlas’s phone. He reads it with a grim expression.
“Ma said she caught the middle of it. Looks like Conin’s mom filed two missing person reports. Nothing on Ezra’s powers yet.”
I’m not surprised the Grays have kept their mouths shut. Typical. They’re so keen on forgetting they ever had a second-born son because if others were to find out about my abilities, the repercussions would be too much to bear. I can imagineThax wants no one to know, either. I shouldn’t feel hurt. I shouldn’t.
“We require alcohol,” Atlas decides, moving to the kitchen. “I’ll contact the Angelics in the morning, but in the meantime . . .”
Excitement perks at the mention of the substance that will dull all this anxiety and worry—this overwhelming stress that builds and builds, collecting like layers of earth. I’ll be buried in it—my grave of all my inane fuckups. I get up to follow Atlas when a strong set of sturdy fingers wrap around my wrist.
“Ezra,” Conin says deliberately.
“I need it,” I say and he lets go.
His gaze sears into the back of my head as I enter the kitchen.
Chapter 33
Conin
Another day passes. The stubble running alongside my jaw has set in and it won’t be long until I have a considerable beard, even if it is patchy like Ezra fears. The red in my hair is as vibrant as ever, though I can’t help but worry I’ll still be recognized somewhere and somehow. Apprehension gnaws at my stomach, spreading like a raging inferno. I remind myself how the Angelics plan to extract us from the bunker and take us directly to Proctus. So, realistically, there’s nothing to fear, but after the missing person reports, that does little to comfort me.
Mom is stubborn. She won’t rest until we’re found.
The MacPhersons have a fenced backyard, a red brick-and-mortar wall casting the illusion of privacy and allowing the five of us to spend some time in the sun after Ezra and I have been cooped up underground for a while. We hang out with Atlas and his parents while we laugh and joke over lunch.
Atlas sits adjacent to me, pulling me out of a daydream I’d wandered into by nudging my shoulder. His eyes displayan encrypted message while Ezra’s distracted by an animated discussion between Atlas’s parents, most likely telling me that I need to stop giving Ezra wistful glances and being so damned obvious over my infatuation.
God, I can’t get his words out of my head!
Atlas’s advice tremors in me like seismic earthquakes. Each repetition urges me to tell Ezra the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I’ve thought of it plenty since then. Every instance I get close to letting my confession slip from my tongue, some incorporeal hand glues my lips back together.
“You haven’t talked to him about it yet, have you?” Atlas whispers, his eyes gliding over the other three.
