Page 8 of Resurgent

“Cool,” I nod. “I’ll just grab Annalise, and we’ll be on our way.”

“Absolutely not!” he snarls, taking a step in my direction like he's going to stop me. “This has been worked out with Dean Stevens, and the plan doesn’t change because you want to play some stupid game.”

“Either I hide snacks here, or I take her with me back to my room and hide more there.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you care so little about her that you’d trap her in your room rather than let her be taken care of here?” he accuses, and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to deck him right here and now.

“She has medical needs now. She won’t be at full strength when she wakes up. And you still have classes to attend—unless you want to be thrown back in prison—so you won’t even be around to help her.”

My laugh comes out cold and bone-dry as I step toward him.

“Do you think I give a fuck about classes when the only person I’ve ever loved is fighting death every day?”

He flinches.

And just like that, I see the moment I’ve won, exactly as I planned.

“Exactly,” I press. “So let me leave the snacks. If she wakes up disoriented and you’re not right there, she needs to know she has access to food.”

He inhales slowly, recalculating.

“Is this about her dad?”

“Obviously. Add it to the list.”

“She can’t just have junk food in there. I’ll go shopping later.”

“It’s not only junk,” I mutter. “There are protein bars. Fresh nuts. And a jar of pickles in the bag—but those need to go in your fridge unless you want to give her a warm one like a psychopath.”

His face twists in disgust and I can’t help the real laugh that slips out. “I dare you to make that face when she wants her favorite food.”

“Pickles are her favorite? Seriously?” he asks skeptically.

“Okay, she can’t actually pick a favorite, but they are up there! I’m pretty sure she invented pickles on pizza.”

Some of the tension bleeds out of the room, and before I can stop myself, I slip into memory lane.

“When we were kids, she ate an entire jar in a sitting one time because she was too hungry to wait for my mom to take us to lunch. You should've heard her scream a few hours later when she went to the bathroom, and her poop was bright green. She thought she was dying!"

To my surprise, he actually laughs.

“Tell her I told you that story and I’ll kill you.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” he mutters, trying—and failing—to suppress his smile.

“Good. Now, can I please put these in her room?”

“How will she know where to look?”

“She won’t. That’s the point. The best snacks are always the hardest to find.”

He sighs, already losing ground. “Why not just leave them on the nightstand?”

“Because the Sheriff would've clocked them in two seconds, and she would have been punished. If he even suspected she was hiding food, he’d strip the room bare.” My anger spikes, but I force it down. “And it helped. Got her up and moving when she was hurt but needed circulation."

When he doesn't immediately say anything, I continue, "We’ve done this since the first time I found out her dad had been starving her for a week…not that she'd had much of an appetite after the beating she'd taken.”

Silence.