“Soon doesn’t help the kids sitting in cages right now,” Kiera whispers.
“Exactly,” Cam agrees. “Which is why we need to get the kids moved and start looking for other facilities and coming up with a plan.” He clicks to another window. Blueprints. Security schematics. Camera grids, I know better than my own bloodwork. My warehouse.
“Going home,” I say.
Kiera drags a hand down her face. “You think they’re still alive,” she says. “The kids. You actually think…”
“I think your mom didn’t run this many routes for nothing,” Cam says gently. “If she got some out, somebody had to take them. And whoever that was? They might still be doing it. Or sitting on records that tell us where the others went.”
“Even if we find them,” she says quietly, “where are we going to put the others? Can your contact fit that many kids?”
“If she doesn’t,” Cam says. “She will know where to house them.” He hesitates, then adds, “We can trust her and her people.”
“Strange people,” she repeats.
“Safe people,” Cam says softly, trying to soothe her. “Community organizers, private shelters, and churches that are meant for hiding. Folks who’ve been funneling kids out of bad situations long before Cicada decided to scale the horror.”
My first instinct is to say absolutely not—to keep every variable within reach, to lock everything down and trust no one whose paranoia doesn’t match mine. I look at Kiera, my eyes sweeping over her. At the bruises, the brand I can’t see but can feel, the way her shoulders are pulled so tight they might snap. We can’t warehouse this many kids alone. “You trust them?” I ask.
“With my life,” Cam says. “And more importantly, with someone else’s.”
Lila snorts softly. “You have friends,” she says. “I’m not sure how I feel about learning this at such a late stage in our relationship.”
“Acquaintances,” he amends. “I’m not emotionally available to have a relationship.”
Kiera’s lips ghost a smile; it’s small, but it’s there. “Okay, well, let’s get to it then.” She gives in momentarily. “We need to be on the road by nightfall.”
“Exactly, I’ll go make the call.” Cam stalks off to the backroom.
I run through the mental checklist automatically: access codes, lock rotations, dead drops. The warehouse has been dark since we pulled thisbatch of kids out and moved them here. It’s due for a sweep. I need to get a van, too. “It’s going to put us back on their radar. Moving that many bodies around, firing up systems we’ve kept quiet…”
“We’re already back on their radar,” Kiera says bluntly. “Nesting House burned. Files missing. You think they’re sitting in a boardroom telling themselves it was all a drill?”
Fair point. “You’re right, but we still need to move as silently as possible. Drawing as little attention as we can. Be the ghost and shadows that we’ve become.”
“Now you’re speaking my love language, Ghost.” Kiera’s eyes light up just a bit brighter than before. “What?” She asks, noticing that I’m staring at her, burning her image into my mind.
“Nothing,” I grunt, shrugging. “Just wondering what you’re not ready to share yet. ”
Kiera’s hand strays, almost unconsciously, fingers brushing the invisible S like she’s checking it’s still there. My ribs pulse in answer. “We have a warehouse to prep, a network to tap, kids to hide. Along with chasing our fucking mothers’ ghosts through cell towers. You're going to have to file your suspicions for later.”
Later is becoming a big fucking problem.Right now, she is right, and I need her to be functional. “Pack light; we won’t have much room.”
Kiera looks up, meeting my eyes. There’s something naked in her expression: fear, want, something in between. “And what do you consider light?” she asks jokingly, because if she doesn’t, she’s afraid she’ll fracture.
“Knives, clothes,” I list, “questionable life choices.”
“In that case, we’re going to need bigger bags.”
By the time I get back from picking up the van, the rain has slowed. The van idles at the edge of the trees. I kill the engine and sit there, fingers still wrapped around the wheel, listening to the tick of cooling metal and the distant sound of kids inside the cabin. The porch light is lighting the silhouette of Cam at the door, mug in hand, looking like he hasn’t moved since I left. “That it?” he asks, nodding toward the van. “That’s it, seats twelve, space in the back for gear—no tracking, no GPS, nothing. Kiera will drive my truck with Lila and the babies. You’ll drive your car back.”
Inside, the air’s thick with kids' noise and nerves, and backpacks line up against the wall like an army of mismatched, worn canvas and cartoon characters. Cam has them organized into groups—babies on the couch with blankets and infant carriers, older ones hovering near the door. Kiera’s checking the list by the table. Her eyes find mine as soon as I walk in. That same secret sits behind them, dark and steady. “Van’s here; we leave in fifteen.”
A ripple of anxiety runs through the room. One of the smaller ones wraps both arms tighter around a stuffed animal that’s seen better days. “Okay, team,” Cam says, clapping his hands once, not too loudly. “Like we talked about. We’re going to another safe place. Bigger than this. More beds. More people who know how to help you feel human again.”
“Is it like this?” a boy asks, voice small. “Or like… there?”
“Nothing is like there,” Kiera says before Cam can answer. Her voice is flat, certain. “You won’t go back there. Ever. I will do everything in my power to make sure that never happens.”
