Page 31

Rosabelle

Chapter 31

“I didn’t do it,” I say quietly.

Agatha is staring at me, arms crossed. “You have motive.”

I stare into the middle distance, the vivid greens of the room blurring around me as the bright, earthy scents of plant life fill my nose. This place surprised me when I walked in. I didn’t expect solitary confinement to be so beautiful.

Of course, they don’t call this solitary confinement.

This is the Emotional Garden, where the delinquents are sent to think about what they’ve done. It’s not a large space, but every inch of it is covered in hanging vines and vegetation, with a domed, windowed ceiling decanting marbled light across mounds of moss and wild grass. There’s a desk and chair in the middle of the room, wooden legs like roots planted directly into the dirt, and we’re supposed to sit here for hours, writing down regrets and reflections in our journals. As per the rules, I’m not wearing shoes or socks.

Clara would love it here.

I hate it.

“Rosabelle,” she says sternly. “Someone ransacked his room while he was in recovery. Turned it upside down. What I want to know is this: How did you get inside? There was no indication that the lock had been tampered with.”

I look up at her, then look away.

“Do you realize what a privilege it is to be here?” she’s saying, shifting her weight. “If you’re not careful, you might end up in a high-security prison—”

“Great,” I say softly. “Transfer me.”

She visibly tenses, then uncrosses and recrosses her arms. “The fact that you haven’t been kicked out yet is frankly unbelievable. The waitlist to get into this facility is yearslong. Did you know that? Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have access to the resources we provide?”

I’m staring, fascinated, at the tight curl of a tender shoot: the terrified coil of youth, the clench of uncertainty. The young vine will be coaxed into life by the promise of light, unfurling each day toward the unknown, grasping for a path until a hand darts out, grabs it by the stalk, and snaps it in half—

“Now, I don’t know what kind of strings you pulled to jump the line,” Agatha is saying, “but we’re only tolerating your behavior here because the orders to admit you came from way above my head. If you don’t get your act right, I will petition to have you removed. There are a lot of people who believe in this program. People who dedicate their lives to this program. You’ve been here less than two days and you’ve already killed someone, then raided his room—”

“I didn’t do it.”

“What have you been doing in here for three hours?” she says. “Did you even write in your journal?”

I blink very slowly. My journal is sitting on the desk, still in its sleeve.

“You haven’t written anything?” she says, stunned. She swipes my journal from the desk, sees the unbroken seal on the sleeve, and appears to burst a blood vessel. I sit back inside myself as she shouts, watching as she tosses my book in front of me. Her words mute and warp, losing shape as I disconnect from time. I listen to the sounds of my own breathing, clasp my hands and trace their lines.

For hours I’ve been watching the light dance and change in this room, using my time to sort through the mental files I’ve made on every person I’ve encountered in the facility. I’ve classified all parties by perceived threat and possible utility, but so far none have stood out to me in any marked way except James. Well, him and Leon.

Someone has ransacked Leon’s room, and it wasn’t me.

Pay attention.

I’ve turned it over and over: Is it possible someone was searching his room for the vial? If so, two new possibilities arise: either Leon is the double agent I’m looking for, or he’s the unlucky caretaker of the object. The former theory falls apart when held up against logic: it seems unlikely The Reestablishment would entrust the vial to someone of unsound mind. Of course, the incident with Leon could be nothing more than an unrelated distraction. Still—

If you’re smart enough, you’ll see it coming.

Theories rise and dissolve, like air bubbles.

In my head I underline a picture of Leon’s face, adding a question mark next to his name.

Important? Or idiot?

Pinned to the imaginary corkboard next to him is an image of James, his face circled and starred, notes scribbled furiously in the margins—

Key to infiltrating Anderson family

Terrifying and dangerous

Notorious bloodline

Lulls enemies into false sense of security

Do not underestimate

—with this last note underlined several times.

The truth is, the drama with Leon is probably little more than a domestic dispute between inmates. It seems far more likely, given everything I’ve been through thus far, that James is my true mark.

I draw breath at the thought.

Heat singes my skin, an uncategorized fear forcing me violently back into my body.

“That’s right,” says Agatha, and I look at her.

She’s misunderstood my reaction.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she’s saying. “Honestly, it’s refreshing to see that you’re even capable of remorse. I was starting to think you didn’t feel bad about killing Leon at all.”

“I didn’t kill him,” I say, remembering. “He’s not dead.”

“You know exactly what I mean—”

My eyes unfocus.

James had been so calm. He didn’t shout or ask questions.

He didn’t even seem mad. He just looked at me, then walked around the table and reached for Leon, and when he put his bare hands on Leon’s bleeding throat, I thought maybe he’d decided to snap his neck, put him out of his misery. Instead, he spoke calmly into Leon’s ear, telling him he was going to be all right, and then held him until he stopped convulsing.

I watched, stunned, my unspooling mind wandering in a dangerous direction—

I wondered then whether James could heal Clara.

I’d dismissed the thought by the time he stepped away from Leon. Someone had already called for the medics. We were swarmed. James, I reasoned, would never meet my sister. He’d no doubt be dead by the time I saw her again.

Meanwhile, Leon had fallen asleep.

“He passed out,” James explained to the responders, his hands slick with blood. “We have to get him into recovery as soon as possible, but he’ll be all right.”

Only after everyone had cleared out did James turn to look at me. He wiped his hands on a stack of napkins, the blood sticky, sticking; paper tearing. He sighed, shook his head.

“Rosabelle,” he’d said softly.

I swore I felt the earth move. His voice, low and steady, slid inside of me, circled my dead heart and squeezed, pumping blood to my veins with a force I’d never felt before. I couldn’t look away from him. I had no idea what he was about to say to me, how he might condemn me.

“Are you okay?” he said.

And I liquefied.

Are you okay?

Rosa, are you okay?

“Hey.” Agatha was snapping her fingers at me. “Did you hear what I said? What’s wrong with you?”

Rosa, what’s wrong?

Nothing , I’d said, scrubbing my hands in the sink. I was scrubbing them raw. They were red and stinging. My eyes were burning.

Why do you keep washing your hands? Clara asked. Why won’t you come read to me?

I have to wash them, Clara. I have to wash them first.

But you’ve been washing forever, Rosa . Aren’t they clean now?

No.

“Excuse me? Are you listening to me?”

The door slams open and I jerk up at the sound, my ears ringing.

James rushes into the room.