Page 26 of Not Her Day to Die (Star-Crossed #2)

B ack in the glorified changing room, I want to fall apart. To come undone. To cry and scream and rage.

But I don’t. Instead, I wait.

The bathroom door is locked so I am still basically naked, sticky, forced to sit on the wooden bench and lean against the cubbies as I wait. And wait. And wait.

Eventually I must fall asleep, but the sound of the door opening startles me awake.

Two women are pushed into the room.

“Clean her.”

I expect the same women as before, but it’s two different ones. One is older and I don’t recognize her, but the other…

Containing the gasp, I freeze in place zeroing in on the woman I know.

On Carrie.

Carrie pays me no mind as she makes quick work of unlocking the bathroom, and shortly after, I hear as a tub is filled.

The other woman guides me towards the running water, helps me out of the torn lingerie. “Come along sweetheart.”

Staring down at the tub, I freeze when Carrie guides me in.

A red thread wraps its way from my chest to her hands.

I see it, but unlike the purple lights, it doesn’t linger. It disappears as Carrie releases me in the hot water .

My attention zeroes in on her face. On her listless eyes, her raw nose, her cracked lips, her greasy blonde hair.

“Carrie,” I whisper.

Her eyes widen in shock, as if she hadn’t quite comprehended who I was, but she doesn’t speak.

Instead, she and the other woman begin to clean me. And I allow them to.

I let them soak my bruised muscles. Let them scrub my sticky skin.

Let them reach inside to clean Darius out of me.

When they are done, Carrie helps me out of the bath.

She wraps me in a towel, hugging me to her.

“Not you too,” her voice breaks.

She releases me, handing me silk pajamas.

“Get dressed. They’ll give you a few hours to gather up the next bidders.” She turns to the older woman as I follow her instructions. Once I have the clothes in place, Carrie speaks again. “Henrietta, what can we do? She’s so young, so innocent.”

Henrietta’s lips flatten. And my attention focuses on her. She’s familiar, but not in a way that I know her. In a way that she reminds me of someone else. Her soft chocolate eyes darken in unease. “We can barely help ourselves.”

Carrie sniffles. “This is my fault, I should never have tried to bring you to Maxwell’s party. We should have just laid out and watched the stars.”

My heart breaks. “This isn’t your fault Carrie. We are all victims of this town.”

Carrie’s eyes are glistening, she reaches into her pocket and offers me a pill.

“Take this,” she says. “Just don’t tell anyone I gave it to you.” Her eyes are soft, but empty .

“What is it?” I ask.

She pauses, observing Henrietta warily. The two women have an unspoken argument before she responds. “It will keep you from getting pregnant.”

My mouth falls open, my eyebrows draw together. “Thank you.” I take it.

I love Darius, but I don’t want a child. I don’t want to bring someone into this horrible world. Especially if I am stuck here.

But maybe our plan will work.

“What day is it?” I ask. I gulp the pill down dry.

“October 6 th .” Carrie shifts from foot to foot, she runs a hand through her hair.

“You’re going to be okay, you’re one of the lucky ones.

They’ll let you out of here. You just have to put on a few more good shows.

But it’s going to be hard, Sunday. He’s going to have to hurt you.

To break you. You just need to disassociate.

You need to pretend you are staring up at those stars.

That you are at the planetarium again.” This time the smile she offers nearly makes its way to her eyes.

“Carrie, we’re all going to make it out of here.” I want to ask a million questions, but I also want them to leave. Carrie’s presence is both a comfort and a reminder of what is at stake. Of the countless victims. Of my brother’s murder.

Of how an entire town watches on in silence as hundreds, if not thousands, are abused and then go missing.

Is wealth all it takes? Is that all you need to spin your own narrative? To make the most absurd lies believable?

Disgust furrows and folds in my stomach. A washing machine that is off kilter, that doesn’t work properly and keeps cycling and cycling with no end in sight.

That is exactly who and what I am .

A broken girl in a vicious cycle.

What if I never escaped the loops at all?

The thought slams into me and lands harder than I expect. I let out a pained groan.

“I miss Auggie. And I made him a promise that I will do whatever I can to fulfill.” Carrie pulls me into one last hug, and I return it, wrapping my arms around her much skinnier frame.

Her bones poke against me as she squeezes me tighter.

“Sunday, take care of yourself, it will all be over soon enough and then this will just be a fading nightmare.”

Another reminder of Auggie’s lasting presence.

It nearly breaks my heart.

He is protecting me even after death.

Perhaps if I weren’t so distracted by my own spiraling, by the different pulsating strands of light, by the injustices of this world, I might notice how Carrie is saying goodbye.

But I don’t. And when she releases me, my mind focuses elsewhere–specifically on the key William gave me. The fourth violet thread has been pulsating, matching my heart’s beat exactly. But there’s another. It is white and bright and leading out of the bathroom and directly to where I hid the key.

“Thank you.” And I mean it. I imagine she isn’t supposed to do this, I imagine she doesn’t have to be kind. She could be apathetic. She could hate me and blame me. In some ways Carrie was used against me. But instead she’s risking herself for me.

Neither Carrie nor Henrietta speak again as they collect the cleaning supplies, my dirty garments, and everything else.

“Keep your head on straight,” Henrietta advises over her shoulder.

And just like that, they are gone. My eyes scan the room, the blinding fluorescent lights catch on a lone metallic item .

A razor.

It is on the edge of the bathtub they just washed me in.

Leaning down, my hand wraps around it carefully, before exiting the washing area.

The silky pajamas have pockets, and I drop the razor inside as I make my way to where I hid the key. Outside the bathroom is essentially a locker room. It is filled with hundreds of cubbies, and I picked one far up and out of sight to place the key in.

My memory is a bit shoddy on its exact whereabouts, but I am able to use the white thread to find it. It leads me right to the key and as soon as I have it in my hand, the thread wraps around me, tying us together.

Odd .

But so is all of this. None of this is normal or okay.

These threads shouldn’t exist. Just like I shouldn’t.

Which serves to instill what I already know.

There is a reason I’m here. A reason I’m alive.

A reason for these threads.

If I haven’t escaped the loops, maybe they will lead me to how I finally can.

My attention shifts to the key.

A single word is written across it.

Master .