If only. “She’s dead.”
“Oh.” He lifts his hand, rubbing the back of it against his mouth. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He pauses, and then, “Lurker attack?”
In the before days, people usually left it at “I’m sorry for your loss”. Even if they were curious, it was bad form to be like,hey, what did they die fromto someone who is still basically a stranger.
The Turning changed all that. If you died anytime after the new year, odds are the lurkers were the reason why. When Maverick asks if it was a lurker attack that stole my twin from me, what he really wants to know is if she Turned herself—what happens when the lurkers bite a survivor and they escape—or if she was devoured, one bite turning into another into another.
“Fire killed her,” I admit. “A hunt gone wrong.”
Maverick opens his mouth.
I push myself to my feet, snagging the sweatshirt so I don’t leave it behind.
“I’m ready to go if you are,” I announce, wiping my dusty hands on my even dustier jeans. “The rest helped, but if we can refill my water, that would be great.”
And if we can never talk about Hallie’s death again, that would be even better.
Maverick pulls out his water bottle, offering it to me. “Have some of mine.”
I take it, hesitating before I uncap it.
He shares his food. He shares his water. He’s given no inclination that he wants anything from me in return except for joining him on this hunt, but you never know. Just like I’m not too sure I buy his story that all he wants to do is take out a lurker nest for no other reason than it’s a boon to humanity.
So it seems like I can sense lurkers now. Pity I can’t figure out what Maverick Brooks’ story is without digging into it. And since poking and prodding and asking questions of this stranger might make him think that I’m willing to be an open book, too, I just drink enough to quench my thirst before passing the water bottle back to him.
We make it another twenty minutes in silence until Maverick clears his throat. When I don’t acknowledge it, he says my name.
Crap.
“Yeah?”
“You know, maybe you should take off the other jacket you’ve got on. Stow that and the hoodie in your sleeping bag, roll it up, and you won’t have to lug them around separately. You might cool off a bit, too. You’ve got to be dying in that thing.”
I am. And, honestly, shoving Denise’s sweatshirt into my sleeping bag until night time is a pretty smart idea. But Rory’s jacket?
“I’m fine.”
His face calls me a liar. “You sure?”
“The jacket stays on,” I say, firm enough that he has to know that’s the end of the conversation.
He frowns. “Why?”
Because he doesn’t need to see my burn. Because it’s like a security blanket for me, and I need it. Because?—
“Because it’s Rory’s.”
Drop it, Mav. Drop it?—
“Who’s Rory?”
None of your business.
That’s what I want to say. That’s what Ishouldsay.
But I don’t.
“My older brother.” I grit my teeth. “He died, too.”
