I would not be a scientist or a doctor. Not a mother or a soldier. I would grow up to be an efficient killer. An excellent asset to the regime. At the height of The Reestablishment’s power, I never imagined my skills would be so enthusiastically desired, but now that we lack the robust military of a bygone era, mercenaries are more important than ever. Spies, assassins, executioners. We’ve been forced to downsize our kill capacity, designing missions with surgical precision and efficiency.
This is all my life is worth. And I decided long ago to sacrifice my dead body so that Clara might live.
“By the way,” says James,interrupting my reverie. “If you’re going to pretend to go through the motions, you need to work on the details. You carry that notebook around but you never carry a pen. You’re not fooling anyone.”
I don’t know what prompts me to say it. I’m not sure I’m thinking at all when I say, softly—
“I’ve been fooling people all my life. You’re the only one paying attention.”
James
Chapter 33
“Let me ask you something,” I say, dropping into the velvet armchair. I sink into the plush fabric, the weight of the day dragging me down. “Is it normal for a girl to just stare at you a lot and not say anything? And if it’s not normal, does that, like, mean something?”
Warner looks up at me from the darkened window, his eyes narrowing.
“Right,” I say on an exhale. “I forgot who I was talking to. Staring at people and not speaking isyourthing, isn’t it?”
Warner doesn’t take the bait.
He says, “A cold-blooded mercenary—loyal to The Reestablishment—is essentially imprisoned in a rehabilitation facility, where she’s forced against her will to participate in excruciating group therapy sessions followed by hours of invasive questioning, and you’re hoping I’m going to tell you that her silent, unyielding stare is an indication that she’s in love with you?”
I slump backward, letting my head hang off the edge. The world flips upside down and I squeeze my eyes shut. “Well,” I say, “when you put it like that.”
A cool breeze pushes through the room. Crickets chirp steadily in the distant night. Low light warms the cozy space,the lamp on the side table casting a gentle glow over Juliette, who’s sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. A book is split open on her bump.
“Are we talking about Rosabelle?” she says.
“You’re tired, love,” Warner says softly. “James and I can discuss this elsewhere. You should sleep.”
“No,” she says, even as she tilts back, closing her eyes against the headboard. “I want to know what’s happening.” She stifles a yawn, then turns to me. “Did she get in trouble again today?”
“Uh—” I glance at Warner, who’s gone rigid. “Yeah,” I say, sighing in defeat. “Yeah, she did.”
It’s been ten days.
Ten days of endless Rosabelle. Gorgeous Rosabelle.InfuriatingRosabelle. She’s been sent to the Emotional Garden six times. Just today she received another official censure. I’d left to use the bathroom for all of five minutes, and by the time I got back, the group session was in chaos.
Rosabelle had Jing in a sleeper hold.
One of the sponsors was shouting, “She’s using him as a shield!”; Ian was saying, “This is not how we solve to resolve!”; and by the time I pushed through the crowd to get to her, Jing had passed out. I watched, stunned, as he slid out of her arms into a heap on the floor. Rosabelle startled when she saw me, stepping away from Jing like a child caught stealing a snack.
“What are you doing?” I’d said, horrified. “Rosabelle, c’mon, we’ve talked about this—”
“I was trying to help,” she’d said.
I nearly rocked back on my heels in astonishment, and she just looked at me with those blinking cat eyes and said she was encouraging Jing to give Elias his slippers back. The explanation was so absurd I almost didn’t believe her until a grizzled older man came barreling through a moment later, tackle-hugging her gleefully from behind.
I’m exhausted.
If she’s not driving me up a wall she’s driving me insane. Sometimes all she does is look at me. I never know what to do when she does this, so I just sit there as she stares, her eyes raking over every inch of me, wondering what the hell she’s thinking and knowing she’ll never tell me. Sometimes she won’t speak for so long the silence begins to make me sweat. I wake up thinking about her. I fall asleep thinking about her. I accidentally brushed against her going through a doorway and the way my body reacted you’d think she’d pinned me to the wall and offered to unzip my pants. I had to leave the building just to get some air. I’ve started dreaming about her. I wake up in the middle of the night overheated and out of my mind. I’ve had trouble sleeping all my life—but this might be the worst sleep I’ve had in years.
“Maybe we should take you off this assignment,” says Warner, stepping away from the window.
“What?” I sit up. “Why?”
“I’m not sure you can handle it.”
