The thought of never seeing her again splinters me. It’s a visceral moment, and my mouth is unwilling to answer him. She’s free, but I slowly feel as if I’m succumbing to a trap. Or better yet, a prison built to silence me further.
“DuPont!” A fist lands on the table with aTHUD, and my attention snaps to Graves and his impatient expression, lips curling in a half snarl, his gaze cutting me down like a blade.
I force myself to meet each set of eyes, memorizing them to hone my purpose. “I accept.”
Graves extends both arms up and outward, theatrical, as if he’s beckoning me in for a hug. “We will schedule the Severing three weeks from today.”
I stiffen.
Three weeks. It’s not enough time to get Thea off their radar. They know I’m in love with her. Threatened Graves with his daughter and paid ten million for her freedom. There isn’t another option for my Offering.
The thought gouges through me. I can already hear her voice—all rhythmic and steady—telling me to let it happen. Telling me to use her to save the others and bring down the very organization that’s taken so much from us. She’d make me promise. She’d make me watch her walk straight into hell if it meant someone else could walk out.
I’ve disregarded her pleas before. This time I can’t. This time, I promise.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
THEA
ANOTHER LONG WEEK AFTER THAT …
I wave at Trevor from my front porch steps as he and Mara drive off, grateful she was available last minute to come bowling with us. Trevor made it seem like a group of us were going, but one by one they started dropping like flies. When Trevor told me it looked like only the two of us this Friday evening, I nearly assaulted Mara in philosophy class asking if she’d like to join. Not only did she say yes, but she volunteered to drive, which meant at no point was I left in the car with Trevor alone.
I know what he wants. I see it in the way he lingers around me, holding on to every word, how his eyes soften when they finally find mine during class, or how his hand hovers too close when we’re seated near each other. Part of me wants to give him that, wants to believe I’m ready for something safe, uncomplicated, and maybe normal. But then Slade slips in, like a shadowed reaper, killing any ambition to date or move on. Two short months, that’s all it’s been, and at times one memory is all it takes to trigger me. I’m unsure I’ll ever be able to cut the thread that ties me to Slade, and I’m not sure I want to.
I unlock my front door and head into my house. My feet throb from the rented bowling shoes, and I toss my keys on the kitchen counter with plans: strip, pajamas, ice cream, and TV. In that order.
My gaze snags on the clear and tidy counter I’m still not accustomed to seeing when I walk in. It’s amazing how many more memories of my mom surface with the house the way she used to keep it. Unfortunately, no matter how much I clean, I can’t scrape away the stench of loneliness or the real stink of mildew and rot from Phil’s neglect.
I want to move. Need to move. But Slade made sure it didn’t cost me a dime to live here, and I’d be a fool to waste the funds he gave me on rent when I can live here for free. When I get a job, though, all gloves are off. I’ll find a new place to live and never look back.
I think she’d want that for me. She’d understand.
Moving through the house, I flick on some lights and wander into my bedroom, peeling off the jeans and T-shirt I wore bowling. Mara’s cigarette smoke clings to the fabric like wet-dog smell does to a couch, and I toss both pieces of clothing into the cracked plastic laundry hamper in my closet. Definitely need to do laundry this weekend.
I tug on the long-sleeve pajama top over my shoulders, the bamboo fabric too indulgent for this house and how I’m about to rot on the faded couch, but it whispers against my skin and reminds me of the lake house, so I wear it anyway. It’s cool to the touch, the pinstripes stretching down the sleeves making me feel taller. I fasten the buttons, then step into the matching shorts, pulling the drawstring into a small knot.
When I’m finished, I move back through the kitchen, open the freezer, and grab the pint of cookie dough ice cream I bought for this exact occasion. I knew after bowling with Trevor I’d need to waste away and eat my feelings. I grab a spoon, pushing thedrawer shut with my hip and digging into the frozen dessert before I’ve even left the kitchen. I shovel a too-big spoonful into my mouth, stopping in the threshold to the living room.
I head to the counter and drag the box of Frosted Flakes off it, dumping a bunch on top of the open pint. Much better.
As I head for the couch, carton in one hand, spoon clutched in the other, my stomach churns. It’s not the ice cream, but the ache of who I’d rather be crashing onto the couch with. Daily, the emptiness consumes me, and I wish …
I sniffle, flop down, and let myself sink into the lumpy cushions. I dig for another bite, letting the cold of the ice cream collide with the burn in my chest. My teeth sting as I work to chew the cereal mixed in with the bitter cold and swallow. I wonder if I could morph down into this furniture and disappear into nothing. It has to be better than how I feel this very moment.
I can pretend to move on, go to school, go to dinner, fake a good time bowling, but the reality is I can’t stop missing him, can’t stop the way my body craves him. Even his silent presence was more comfortable than the boisterous laughter of a lively group.
Maybe this is all I have left.
A rumble of thunder shudders through the walls of the house, and I startle, several flakes of my cereal jumping out of my pint. The windowpanes rattle and a sudden flash of lightning splits the sky through the front window. The thrum of my pulse intensifies.
Was it supposed to storm tonight? I scramble for the remote, pressing several buttons until the TV blinks on. I scroll through the channels, and when I land on the local news, I try to read the obnoxiously small storm warnings crawling across the bottom.
Raindrops slowly prick against the roof, drumming out into a steadier rhythm. Then it swells, and the sound thickens andwhips against the windows. So much for the weather. Don’t need the news to tell me it’s going to storm after all.
I’m about to switch the channel to some mind-numbing sitcom, but a reporter at the airport catches my attention.
“… reporting live from the Chicago O’Hare Airport, where a rare spectacle is unfolding. Moments ago, Swedish collector Henrik Dahlström stepped off his private jet here in the US, accompanied by a small entourage. Dahlström is known across Europe for luxury acquisitions, and rumor has it he’s arrived in the States after having purchased a single comic book valued at over two point three million dollars.”
