Page 33

James

Chapter 33

“Let me ask you something,” I say, dropping into the velvet armchair. I sink into the plush fabric, the weight of the day dragging me down. “Is it normal for a girl to just stare at you a lot and not say anything? And if it’s not normal, does that, like, mean something?”

Warner looks up at me from the darkened window, his eyes narrowing.

“Right,” I say on an exhale. “I forgot who I was talking to. Staring at people and not speaking is your thing, isn’t it?”

Warner doesn’t take the bait.

He says, “A cold-blooded mercenary—loyal to The Reestablishment—is essentially imprisoned in a rehabilitation facility, where she’s forced against her will to participate in excruciating group therapy sessions followed by hours of invasive questioning, and you’re hoping I’m going to tell you that her silent, unyielding stare is an indication that she’s in love with you?”

I slump backward, letting my head hang off the edge. The world flips upside down and I squeeze my eyes shut. “Well,” I say, “when you put it like that.”

A cool breeze pushes through the room. Crickets chirp steadily in the distant night. Low light warms the cozy space, the lamp on the side table casting a gentle glow over Juliette, who’s sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. A book is split open on her bump.

“Are we talking about Rosabelle?” she says.

“You’re tired, love,” Warner says softly. “James and I can discuss this elsewhere. You should sleep.”

“No,” she says, even as she tilts back, closing her eyes against the headboard. “I want to know what’s happening.” She stifles a yawn, then turns to me. “Did she get in trouble again today?”

“Uh—” I glance at Warner, who’s gone rigid. “Yeah,” I say, sighing in defeat. “Yeah, she did.”

It’s been ten days.

Ten days of endless Rosabelle. Gorgeous Rosabelle. Infuriating Rosabelle. She’s been sent to the Emotional Garden six times. Just today she received another official censure. I’d left to use the bathroom for all of five minutes, and by the time I got back, the group session was in chaos.

Rosabelle had Jing in a sleeper hold.

One of the sponsors was shouting, “She’s using him as a shield!”; Ian was saying, “This is not how we solve to resolve!”; and by the time I pushed through the crowd to get to her, Jing had passed out. I watched, stunned, as he slid out of her arms into a heap on the floor. Rosabelle startled when she saw me, stepping away from Jing like a child caught stealing a snack.

“What are you doing?” I’d said, horrified. “Rosabelle, c’mon, we’ve talked about this—”

“I was trying to help,” she’d said.

I nearly rocked back on my heels in astonishment, and she just looked at me with those blinking cat eyes and said she was encouraging Jing to give Elias his slippers back. The explanation was so absurd I almost didn’t believe her until a grizzled older man came barreling through a moment later, tackle-hugging her gleefully from behind.

I’m exhausted.

If she’s not driving me up a wall she’s driving me insane. Sometimes all she does is look at me. I never know what to do when she does this, so I just sit there as she stares, her eyes raking over every inch of me, wondering what the hell she’s thinking and knowing she’ll never tell me. Sometimes she won’t speak for so long the silence begins to make me sweat. I wake up thinking about her. I fall asleep thinking about her. I accidentally brushed against her going through a doorway and the way my body reacted you’d think she’d pinned me to the wall and offered to unzip my pants. I had to leave the building just to get some air. I’ve started dreaming about her. I wake up in the middle of the night overheated and out of my mind. I’ve had trouble sleeping all my life—but this might be the worst sleep I’ve had in years.

“Maybe we should take you off this assignment,” says Warner, stepping away from the window.

“What?” I sit up. “Why?”

“I’m not sure you can handle it.”

I bristle, and the lie is automatic: “I can handle it.”

“What did you discuss with her today?”

I swallow and sit back, glancing around the room, shopping for time. Today I watched her braid her hair. Braid and unbraid it. Braid and unbraid it.

I asked about her parents. She looked at me.

I asked about her sister. She looked at me.

I asked about her ex-fiancé. She looked at me.

I’d finally crossed my arms and said, “Are you going to do this forever? Seriously? You’re just going to sit there and stare at me and give me nothing? What’s your favorite color, Rosabelle? Can you tell me your favorite color? Or is that some kind of highly protected trade secret you can’t speak into the world for fear of inciting a new war?” and then she laughed at me, and then I had a stroke. I actually felt the blood drain from my face. My hands went hot, then clammy.

It was a soft, musical sound I’d never heard from her. Hell, I’d never even seen her smile.

She was still smiling when she looked at me after that, the gentle expression lingering on her face.

My fucking soul left my body.

I’d always thought she was gorgeous, but I had no idea what I was missing. The way her eyes lit up, the way her nose wrinkled. She’s been eating more every day, looking healthier, growing only more radiant.

“ Wow ,” I’d whispered, gaping at her like an idiot discovering his hands for the first time. And then, realizing I’d said the word out loud, I reached inside myself and put my fist through my brain.

“Have you actually lost your mind?” says Warner, his anger so sharp it slaps me back to the present.

I’m not entirely sure how much of my emotional turbulence he’s picking up on right now, but the look on his face is telling me it’s probably a lot.

“You know,” I say, pointing at him. “It’s interesting. There’s something about the way she always has her guard up that actually reminds me of you.”

Warner’s face goes neutral at that. A clear sign he’s hiding his own emotional response. “Excuse me?”

Juliette makes a hum of interest.

“Like, obviously you guys are different people,” I clarify. “But I know the real you, because I’ve lived with you for so long. I know that the face you put on for the world isn’t the one you wear when you feel safe. She gives off that same vibe. Sometimes I don’t get a lot of answers out of her, but then she’ll look at me and I swear I can see her.” I turn away. “Like the real Rosabelle is a girl living inside a fortress inside a fortress inside a fortress inside a fortress. But the walls are so thick no one can hear her screaming.”

When I finally look up, I discover Warner is watching me. Juliette is watching me.

“What?” I say.

“You care for her,” says Warner.

“No, I don’t,” I lie.

“You do,” says Juliette, her eyes going soft. “Oh, James.”

“This is an unfortunate developmnet,” says Warner, turning toward the window.

“It’s not like that,” I lie again, fighting for redemption. “It’s just that sometimes I get the sense that she’s, like, genuinely scared. Or nervous. Or just human . Sometimes I really get the feeling she would walk away from The Reestablishment if she thought there was a way out. And for the record, I don’t think she’s cold-blooded—”

“Kenji might be able to handle it,” Warner says to Juliette. “Or Samuel.”

Juliette shakes her head. “They’re both overloaded right now, and Samuel doesn’t have the clearance.”

“Hugo might be ready,” says Warner.

“Oh, Hugo,” says Juliette sleepily.

“ Hey ,” I say angrily. “You said I had eight weeks. It’s only been ten days—”

“It might be a good entry point, give him a chance to prove himself,” says Warner. “Then again, if we’re wrong, he could prove to be a liability—”

“I’d like to see Hugo in action,” Juliette says. “He’s been in a holding pattern for long enough—”

“Fine,” I say, throwing up my hands. “You want hard data? Fine. She told me her mother’s name was Anna. She says her parents are dead. She’s twenty years old. Her sister is seven years younger than her. She has no other siblings. You already know about the wedding invitation; she was engaged to a guy named Sebastian back on the island, and she told me when I first met her that it’s not happening anymore. It’s possible they were matched together by their parents, which might explain why she was able to walk away from the situation so easily. It also meshes with the theory that she was born into a wealthy, high-ranking family, because, as you know”—I look up—“betrothals were a common practice among The Reestablishment elite, and the very fact that she was on the Ark at all indicates she enjoyed a rarefied level of privilege—”

“When did her parents die?” Warner asks, cutting me off.

“I don’t know.”

“Which sector did she live in?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you been able to gather any more information on the Nexus? How it works? Who controls it?”

“No.”

“Why does she have a scar on the inside of her forearm?”

“I don’t know—”

“Where did her bruises come from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why wasn’t she informed of your identity before she killed you?”

“I don’t know!”

“Then what do you know?”

“I know that she’s right-handed? She recently discovered she doesn’t like tomatoes? Direct sunlight sometimes makes her sneeze?”

Juliette yawns again, shifting against the headboard.

“Ten days,” says Warner. “Ten days you’ve been with her and this is all you’ve uncovered.”

“You told me to talk to her,” I hit back. “You told me to act like we believe she’s here for a chance at a new life. You told me to ask her normal questions with no hostility. How am I supposed to interrogate her when I was explicitly told not to interrogate her?”

“It’s called finesse ,” says Warner, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Maybe I should do it myself.”

“No,” I practically shout. “It’s not safe for any of you to have direct exposure to her. Besides, you already have ten billion things to manage. Don’t take me off the assignment. C’mon, bro. This is bullshit. She already knows me—”

“Shut up for a second.”

I’m ready to protest, but then Warner crosses the room to Juliette, gathering her into his arms with a tenderness he exhibits with no one else. I watch, my anger deflating, as he helps settle her into bed, adjusting her head, drawing her hair away from her eyes. He positions extra pillows around her body, closes up her book, places it on the nightstand, and then draws the blanket up around her shoulders.

She murmurs a thank-you to him, and he kisses her forehead, the tender exchange making me restless, like I need to exit my body. Growing up with these two has ruined me for regular relationships. I want what they have.

Warner looks up at me as the thought crosses my mind, studying me as if I’d spoken the words out loud.

“Has she asked you any more questions lately?” Juliette asks, sliding a hand under her pillow.

“Sort of,” I say, the fight leaving my body. “She doesn’t ask a lot of questions about me, personally. But she’s been asking some questions about what our world looks like. She was confused about my watch”—I hold it up as proof— “the regular use of pen and paper, the touches of analog tech everywhere.” I hesitate. “She did ask a really specific question about the light in the Emotional Garden.” I tilt my head, remembering. “She wanted to know if it was real.”

Warner stiffens.

“Oh, she’s planning to escape,” Juliette says, stifling another yawn. “She must be expecting contact soon.”

“What?” I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Use your head,” Warner says quietly. “She’s asking practical questions about tech and society because she’s preparing for engagement in foreign territory. She wants to know whether the light is real because—”

And then it hits me. Hard. I slump back in my chair, feeling stupid. “Because she’s trying to figure out whether the building is underground.”

A sudden, shrill alarm rings softly through the room, and Warner stands up, sliding the receiver out of his pocket. He unfolds the razor-thin metal, and Kenji’s voice projects immediately into the room—

“Hey man, I know it’s super late and you’re supposed to be offline right now, but Maya told Agatha to tell Ian who called me to say that they’re all worried something weird is going down in the hall outside Rosabelle’s bedroom—”

I bolt upright, nearly knocking into Warner. “What does that mean?”

Warner looks at me, annoyed.

“I don’t know, man,” says Kenji. “But Ian says that Maya says your girlfriend is talking to Leon about— Oh, shit .”

The line goes quiet. Kenji’s just breathing.

“What?” we all say at the same time.

“James, get your ass over there,” he says, all traces of humor gone from his voice. “Maya just sent me some footage from the hallway cams.”

“Okay, I’m leaving now— I’ll be right there— Is she trying to kill him again?”

“No,” says Kenji, subdued. “I think this dude might be trying to kill her .”