My fingers tremble against the handle before I let go. Despite the imprint of adrenaline thrumming through me, I know I can’t go back, and it’s a toss-up between self-preservation and thehope I could do more for the girls on this side of things. If I’m out, I can get help.
Exposure.
They need to be exposed.
The leather seat lets out a low creak as I sink back into it. I watch through the window as Knox turns to exchange words with Edmond. With an exhale, I look away, resting my head and letting my limbs yield to the heaviness weighing them down.
In the dark, padded safety of the limo, I let myself breathe like I’m coming up for air. I ignore the unnerving quiet, and instead, I relish it. That is until I’m startled by the door opening again, as Slade hurries in, composure stretched thin across his flexing expression. He slides into me, and I scoot over while Edmond climbs in after him. The driver up front glances in the rearview, and Edmond gives him the thumbs-up. The door shuts, and the limo squeals out of the parking garage. The feeling of escape is familiar, riveting even, but this time I’m more confused than ever.
“Can someone please explain what’s going on?”
Edmond pipes in. “Congressman DuPont has secured your release.”
I look between the two men, Slade adjusting his glasses and Edmond his bow tie. “Release? You make it sound like I was in prison. And I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for”—I swallow—“everything, but what about the others. Who’s going to go to the Culling? And, actually where do they go? Please, we can’t leave them.”
A tear strips itself from my lashes, and I wrinkle my nose fighting the many more that want to follow in its place.
Slade lifts a hand, bringing it toward my face. I lean away, but he catches my tear with his thumb anyway. For a moment, he stares at the droplet on the pad. His brow dips slightly and his eyes narrow, scanning my single tear as if it contains a secretmessage he’s trying to decode. There’s a flex in his jaw, a flicker, and his nostrils flare, but then his hand falls and wipes the droplet away on his pants.
Edmond shifts, like he wishes he could step away, but we’re inside a moving vehicle. He turns his head, not quite facing the door, not quite facing me either. “Unfortunately, there isn’t anything we can do about it.”
“But then how did you walk out with me? They just let you go without any consequences? Nothing? We need to go back, call the police. If you let me go, I can?—”
“No,” Slade rumbles through clenched teeth.
Edmond turns, surprised. “Speaking now, are we, sir?”
Slade snarls at him before finding my gaze. His eyes soften. “You,” he rasps, as if he’s fighting to get the words out. “You will not be permitted to leave. This was not without consequence.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Your location has been negotiated for during the time being. Eventually, you will need to return.”
“I’m sorry? What?” Returned? I don’t want to go back. Why take me at all if I’m just going to be dumped back here?
Edmond opens his mouth. “I think he said?—”
“I know what he said. Why do I need to go back?” I blink, quickly discarding the prickle behind my eyes.
Slade purses his lips, like he’s deep in thought, and then he turns to look out the window, effectively ignoring me. I turn to Edmond and raise my eyebrows.
“I think that is all the congressman could do. But for now, you are safe. Let’s get some food for you, shall we?”
The thought of food after being drugged is revolting, and my stomach churns, flipping on its end. A sour tang bubbles up my throat, and I swallow, forcing the rising nausea down, but the limo tilts and I bend over my seat, clutching my stomach.
“Miss Thea?” Edmond asks, concerned. “Are you all right?”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Slade pounds on the side of the door three times, and the driver pulls over. I gag once and paw at the door, tumbling out once the handle gives way. My body jerks as my empty stomach dry heaves over the side the road. The fumes from the exhaust make it all worse, and my body jolts again. I brace a hand on my knee, well aware I look like a broken camping chair, folded in half, naked. A single-serve bag of crushed chips crinkles beneath my heel, and a crack pipe rolls around, the hollow glass singed at the tip.
“Are you ill?” Slade’s voice is closer behind me, and I’m still not used to it.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I don’t know. My stomach’s been revolting since they gassed us last night. I just haven’t had the time to think about it. Guess now I do.”
There’s a shuffle behind me, and a hand presses firm against my now aching back. The weight of it, the warmth at the point of contact, makes me flinch, and I leap to the side. When I look at Slade, his cheeks blaze, and he rubs the back of his neck, scrubbing entirely too hard.
“I’m sorry. I just … I can’t not touch you.”
