Chapter 13
It takes a few seconds for my brain to switch tracks.
This isn’t the mysterious Number Six. It isn’t one of Vale’s crew at all.
Aunt Connie. Eames and Piper’s aunt.
“What are you doing here?” asks Eames, sounding shocked. “How did you get out of the apartment?”
Aunt Connie—my brain keeps calling her that, even though she’s not related to me in any way—lowers her gun and turns toward Eames. “You’re all right?”
He nods.
“Piper?” she says sharply.
Another nod. “We were in the pool,” he says. “Well, Piper was. When they came. She—Augusta Pine”—he gestures at me—“helped get us to safety. This apartment isn’t locked down like the others.”
Aunt Connie’s attention switches to me. “Thank you. For helping them.”
I nod. It sounds as though those words cost her something. Perhaps she’s angry that she wasn’t there to protect her family. Or maybe she’s not used to owing anything to a wiry teenager with half-pink hair and a can of pepper spray.
“We should get inside,” I say. “Just in case.”
Eames takes a step back and I wait for Aunt Connie to go inside before I follow. Nonna is in the hallway of her apartment, rolling pin in hand. Once she sees me, her shoulders relax.
“Aunt Connie?” says Piper, coming out from behind the love seat.
Aunt Connie smiles. She hugs her niece, then sits down on the love seat and sets her pistol on the steamer trunk.
Unspent adrenaline simmers in my veins, urging me to action. I want to get up, to leave this quiet apartment and track down the other members of Radio-cremation. But I need every scrap of information I can find.
“How did you get out of your apartment?” I ask. “Did you see anyone out there?”
Aunt Connie’s attention flashes to me. “I was taking out the garbage when everything locked down. Had the front door propped open so I wouldn’t have to take my key. I went looking for the kids.”
“With a gun?” I ask.
Aunt Connie nods. “I keep one in a safe for personal protection. I went back for it after that announcement. Then I started going up and down the floors.”
She’s lucky she didn’t run into any of Vale’s crew. Or even Vale herself.
“Okay,” I say. “Listen, I don’t have time to explain everything right now, but the criminals are looking for something owned by the government. I’m an intern with a federal agency, and my boss told me to find it first.”
“Oh,” says Aunt Connie. She manages to gather her expression into something neutral. “Aren’t you a little … young?”
I rub my forehead. “I get that a lot.”
“Why are you hiding in this apartment?” she asks.
I answer, “Because the stubborn old lady refused to upgrade.”
“I prefer ‘determined’ to ‘stubborn,’” says Nonna, with a serene sip of iced tea.
I bite back a grin. “We can’t be locked in remotely, there’s no virtual assistant to spy on us, and the fire system won’t suffocate us. It’s an improvement over all the other places to hide, trust me.”
Aunt Connie stares at me rather distrustfully. I can’t fault her instincts.
“You know how to use that?” I ask, with a nod at her gun.
Her lips purse. “I took a class.”
Great. A single class. She’s just as likely to shoot one of us as one of the bad guys.
“Listen,” I say. “The criminals have to go through the apartments one by one. We’ve got a little time.”
“And what happens,” asks Nonna quietly, “when they reach this apartment?”
The truth is, I could let Vale’s people search this place. They’re not going to find a government work product in my grandmother’s apartment. “Whatever they’re looking for isn’t here. You should let them in and don’t put up a fight.”
Eames’s gaze flashes to mine in alarm. I can clearly see my own fears reflected in his eyes—he has no desire to let such dangerous people near his family.
“What are you going to do?” he asks me.
“I need to find out what they’re looking for,” I reply.
Aunt Connie scoffs. “You?”
I could tell her that I’ve already dealt with two of Vale’s crew, but that would sound like a childish brag or a lie. The truth is, I’ve been surviving on a combination of luck, good timing, and scrappy skill.
“I’ll do what I can to stop them,” I say evenly. “But first, I’m going to clean up a little.”
The bathroom is murky with shadow; only a sliver of window over the toilet lets in any light.
I see linoleum tiles, a faded shag bath rug, a toothbrush holder shaped like a wave, and the fraying towels with daisy embroidery at the edges.
I can’t believe she still has these. My hand rises without my brain telling it to, and my fingers stroke the edge of the towel.
I slip my visor from my face and set it on the counter. Blood flecks my nostrils and I can see the bruises beginning to form beneath my eyes.
“Hey.” Eames stands in the doorway. “You all right?”
“Just cleaning up.” I pick up a white washcloth and turn on the water. Thankfully, the building’s generators still keep the water running, even if it isn’t hot. Once the cloth is soaked through, I dab the crusted blood away from my nose and mouth. “What is it?”
He steps inside, pulling the door shut behind him. He sets a bag of frozen peas on the counter. “I thought you might need some help. And if it were me … I wouldn’t want everyone knowing I needed help.”
I look at him sharply. It’s not that I expect the worst in people, but in my experience, acts of kindness are few and far between.
“Thanks.” I pick up the bag, wrap it in the damp washcloth, and gently press it against my nose.
It hurts—a flare of agony like fire—but then the discomfort ebbs away.
I sit on the toilet, keeping the bag firmly in place.
Sitting is a bliss all its own. I want to close my eyes and let the quiet have me.
But I can’t let my guard down. I open my eyes and look at Eames.
He is studying me. “So that’s what you look like.”
I gesture at myself—from the bag of peas pressed to my face to the half-pink hair to the gravel dust on my knees. “Hot, I know.”
That gets me a snort. “You’re a better sight than any of those terrorists.”
“That’s a low bar.” My mouth tastes like old pennies. “How’s Piper doing?”
“She’s scared,” he admits. “But she’s strong. Stronger than I ever was at that age.”
“And your aunt?”
He gives a little half shrug. “I’m glad she’s all right.” He exhales. “We just moved in with her a few weeks ago. I—I don’t really know her. But she’s nice, and she risked her life to come looking for us.”
I wonder what kind of circumstances led Eames and Piper to live with their aunt they barely know, rather than a parent. Probably nothing good.
I’m not the only one with a tangled, painful past. Perhaps that’s why Eames understood my need to retreat to see to my own wounds. Those of us who’ve had to rely on ourselves tend to isolate in moments of danger.
“I never thanked you,” says Eames abruptly. “For helping us.”
I wave off his thanks with my free hand. “I thought it was implied.”
He looks irritated with himself. “I threatened you with a kitchen knife.”
“The knife was dull,” I say, “and most of my friends have threatened me with bodily harm at one point or another.”
The corners of his mouth turn up. “Is that what we are?”
I pull the damp washcloth away from my nose. “I mean, I trust you more than most of the people I’ve met in the last hour.”
“Low bar.” I can feel the weight of his gaze, as though he’s trying to decipher a half-remembered language. “Who are you?” he says quietly. “Really?”
I swallow again.
The best lies are told with one’s body, not words. Smiling at someone to put them at ease. Walking briskly into a busy building so no one questions that you belong. Putting your right hand on someone’s shoulder so they won’t notice your left slipping into their pocket.
I can’t tell him I’m normal. My every action will contradict that. But I need him to trust me.
More than that, I want him to trust me.
“I’m not your enemy,” I say quietly.
His eyes never leave mine. “Then what are you doing here?”
That is the question, isn’t it?
“I’m trying to do better,” I say. The words slip out—I don’t mean to say them. I expect Eames to frown, to demand an explanation. Because if I’m trying to do better, that means I’m a bad person.
But to my surprise, he nods. “Aren’t we all,” he says quietly.
For a few moments, neither of us speaks.
I look down at the bloodied washcloth in one hand and the defrosting bag of peas in the other.
As much as I want to, I can’t stay here.
I force myself to rise, setting the bag and cloth on the counter.
There is a cupboard close to Eames’s elbow, and I carefully reach for it.
Inside, Nonna keeps an assortment of over-the-counter medications.
I pull out a bottle of painkillers, swallow two, and drink directly from the sink to wash them down.
“All right,” I say, straightening. I pick up my visor, slip it back into place, and run a hand through my hair. “I’m going back out there. You keep an eye on everyone in here, all right?” I pass by him and walk past the living room.
Before I can get to the front door, Eames takes hold of my arm.
He looks down at me. His face is drawn in lines of fear and bedrock determination.
“I’m coming with you,” he says.
Aunt Connie lurches to her feet. “Eames, no.”
“What she said,” I say, pointing at her. “But add an expletive in the middle.”
“You can’t do this alone,” says Eames. “There are five of them and one of you. What you’re doing is brave—but you’re going to get yourself killed. At least take me with you. I can be a distraction.” The corners of his mouth twitch into a self-deprecating smile.
I squint at him. I know so little about Eames—only that he’s a recent high school graduate, he lives with his aunt and sister, and he prefers to stay out of the water while teaching a kid to swim.
I know that he put himself between his sister and an armed killer and that he was willing to jump from a three-story balcony to keep her safe.
The truth is, most people never know how they’ll react in life-or-death situations.
But I know how Eames will react. He’ll try to keep me safe.
I don’t deserve his protection.
“How old are you?” I ask. I know, but he doesn’t know that I know.
“How old are you?” he counters.
“Eighteen. As of a month ago.”
“Eighteen, as of three months ago,” he replies, then flashes me a lopsided grin. “I win.”
Warmth floods my cheeks, but I look away. I remember the last time a boy smiled at me like that. It didn’t end well for him.
“You’re not trained for this,” I say.
His gaze is steady on mine. “And you are?”
I can’t answer that—not without revealing too much. Instead, I bite down on my lip.
“You have any family?” he asks.
I don’t look at Nonna. She is listening to every word, but maybe I can pretend she isn’t there. “Yes. But … we’re not really on speaking terms.” It’s a simpler explanation than telling him that my entire family thinks I’m dead.
He nods. “I get that. Piper … she’s all I have left. I won’t lose her.” His gaze hardens, his mouth tightening. “Can you promise she’ll be safe, if we stay here and hide?”
I hesitate. I could promise that, but I’d be lying. No one in this building is safe.
“No,” I say. “But I’m going to do my best to make sure everyone comes out of this alive.”
He nods a second time. “You need help. I’m coming with you.”
I grimace. But then again, I’m not really in a position to refuse him. I can’t physically stop him from coming with me.
I give him a once-over, trying to see him as an outsider might. He’s perhaps six inches taller than me, and he has a swimmer’s build—all shoulders and hands. He is more intimidating than I am, I’ll give him that.
He really is beautiful. Sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw—the delicate line of his mouth looks as though it should be captured in marble. His complexion is lightly tanned from the summer sun and his dark hair has a few strands of gold in it. Maybe he was blond like his sister when he was a kid.
When I was fifteen, I’d been cute. I was growing into my legs and arms, still finding my balance. After I was pulled from the wreckage of a car, I was rebuilt—titanium-reinforced bones, a half-mechanical heart, muscles that needed stitching back together.
When ISD decided I was worth resurrecting, they had taken other liberties.
My eyesight was lasered to perfection; my nose was straightened; even the angle of my cheekbones was lifted.
When I asked about it, a doctor explained parts of my face had needed surgery after being crushed.
But part of me always wondered if perhaps it was to distinguish Augusta Pine from the girl I’d once been.
To draw a sharp line between the before and the after.
To remind me every time I looked in a mirror that I was not the same person.
“Eames,” says Aunt Connie, a slight edge to her voice. She has risen to her feet, one hand on Piper’s shoulder as though to restrain her. Something in Aunt Connie’s voice makes me think that she wishes it was only her and Eames in the room.
“I’ll be careful,” says Eames.
“It’s too risky,” says Aunt Connie.
“Keep her safe,” says Eames quietly.
Aunt Connie opens her mouth to protest. Then she heaves a resigned sigh, as though she has come to the same conclusion I have: She can’t stop him.
Piper wrenches free of Aunt Connie’s grasp. She comes to stand in front of her brother, her arms crossed and mouth set.
Eames squats down in front of her. “I’ll be fine, P.”
“Don’t call me that,” she says at once, her anxiety crumbling into fond irritation. She shakes her head. “Just … come back, okay?”
He gives her that lopsided smile, gently chucking her beneath the chin. “I always do.”
Aunt Connie crosses her arms. I can feel the skepticism coming off her in waves. She looks at me. “You think you can find what the criminals want?” she asks quietly. “Before they do?”
I shrug. “I’m pretty good with deadlines.”