I sort through the files in my head, trying to recall every experience I’ve ever had with her. I’m searching for patterns. Inconsistencies. I can’t decide whether she’s in full control of this strange phenomenon.
If she’s able to open and close the doors to her mind, why not shut me out sooner? If she can’t, why would The Reestablishment employ an unstable mercenary?
There’s something I’m missing.
Setting aside her executioner skills, she’s thus far proven her capacity for espionage, unknown chemical warfare, and cyber hacking. She nearly succeeded in stealing a military jet while under relentless fire. She’s exhibited unprecedented mental and physical fortitude not only in prison, but under interrogation and duress. Upon admission to the hospital her most recent injuries had been declared so critical the medics couldn’t believe she’d maintained consciousness until the end.
Why, then, when comparatively uninjured, did she collapse en route to The New Republic? Why, when given something to eat, had she vomited up her food in a panic? Why, after mercilessly slaughtering three others at the rehab facility, hadn’t she pulled the trigger to kill Kenji when she had the chance?
I tilt my head at her.
More concerning than all else: I can’t decide whether her erratic and inconstant feelings toward my brother are rooted in reality or subterfuge.
Rosabelle holds my gaze with a steady implacability, her eyes cold and vacant. She says nothing, and the nonactionis its own weapon. When she stops speaking she seems to draw a sword.
I understand the power of silence. I know what it’s like to be watched and dissected. If I lived in a comprehensive surveillance state, I, too, would no doubt cease to speak altogether. But never in my life have I met anyone capable of presenting perfect emotional stillness. Never have I stood in a room with another person and known true quiet.
This silence is new and a little disorienting.
I can’t deny that the reprieve is a relief for my tired mind, but it occurs to me then that I’ve never been alone with Rosabelle; not like this. Even when she was unconscious upon arrival, there were medics on rotation, checking her vitals. But more than that, she appears to have physically hardened inside herself, sitting upright now with a strength she couldn’t summon only moments ago.
I take a step toward her.
She watches me closely.
She’s more alert. Vigilant. My own instincts sharpen in response. Far from the panic-stricken girl she was just minutes prior, she now seems dangerous. She’s more awake in every practical way, and yet, somehow—
Living death before my eyes.
I stand over her, studying her blank face. She averts her gaze, and I can almost feel her fight a flinch.
“Why is it,” I whisper, finally breaking the silence, “that you don’t seem to be truly alive unless you’re near my brother?”
She looks up sharply.
24
Rosabelle
Electricity hums through my body, the low-level current vibrating through my wrists, my ribs, up my throat, inside my teeth. The effect offers me a strange comfort, the white noise a stabilizing anchor for my mind.
There’s no reprieve, however, for my eyes.
I blink and hold; release.
Blink and hold.
Release.
My eyesight still hasn’t fully recovered. My pupils continue to dilate and constrict, trying to focus. The muscles are beginning to ache. The constant flare and retraction of light is making my head pound.
I walk in measured strides up to the sliding door in the empty living room, my hands still forcibly restrained behind my back. Absently, I touch the pads of my thumb and forefinger together, making soft circles.
Die, I tell myself softly.Die.
A muted blade of hunger cuts through me and I hold still, silently breathing out with the pain as it passes. It smells stale in here, like paint and dust; the air is dense and depressing. My vision blurs and focuses; blurs and focuses. Footsteps echo in the vacant space, staccato against the wood floors.
A soft hush, then thud, as she comes to a stop.
