Chapter 62.
An hour later, after they’d all finished dinner, Jimmy Donaldson comes walking into the estate dining room.
For half a second, nobody moves. Alek’s chair scrapes as she stands, shock turning instantly into angry relief. She can’t hold back a smile. “You know how to make an exit.”
Jack’s eyes narrow. “Nobody else who pushed the button ever came back.”
“What’s going on?” Hannah whispers.
Jimmy looks . . . normal. He’s wearing a navy sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers. And an almost sheepish look on his face. He looks as surprised to be there as they are to see him.
He raises both hands, palms out. “Okay,” he says. “I deserve that look. I deserve all of it.”
Tipton’s voice cuts in from another table. “I’m not applauding.”
Jimmy doesn’t even glance his way. He looks at the twenty of them like he’s counting faces, like he’s checking who made it, who didn’t.
“Listen, we’ve already pretty much established that I talk too much,” he says. “And I’m sure you’ve all got a bunch of questions about what happened. But none of that matters as much as this: I’m still here for all of you.”
“How did you even get here? You pushed your red button,” Wyatt says. “I mean, not that we aren’t glad to see you.”
“Speak for yourself,” Tipton says. “Fame has perks.”
“I’ll bet it does,” Lopez says.
Jimmy ignores him. “I can’t tell you yet,” Jimmy says. “Not in here.”
Alek stares at him. “So you just . . . forced your way back in?”
Jimmy’s expression hardens. “No. I didn’t force anything.”
Lopez’s voice comes from the other side, amused. “So you’re back because they want you back.”
“Look, we all know good people who are gone,” he says. “I came back to show you I’m still in this. I’m worried that there will be more unless somebody does something. And that somebody has to be me.”
“But how?” Jack says.
He shakes his head. “I’ve got a lot of work to do. Starting with finding out who’s really behind these games. I stayed when I thought this was fair, but I’ve seen you can take care of yourselves. I can’t help from in here—”
Tipton smirks. “That’s convenient.”
Jimmy turns, finally, and looks straight at Tipton. “It’s not convenient. It’s leverage. They think they can use me.”
He faces the room again. “Someone needs to figure out who’s actually in charge.”
Jack’s voice is rough. “We should go with you—”
Jimmy’s eyes flick to Jack—just for a moment, like he’s seeing Elena in the space beside him.
“Not yet,” Jimmy says.
Silence.
Then Wyatt says the simplest thing in the room. “I trust you.”
Jimmy exhales, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath since he walked in.
“I’m not asking for blind faith,” Jimmy says. “I’m asking you to survive long enough for me to do my part.” He pauses. “I’m starting with The Host.” He looks up at the ceiling, speaking to a hidden microphone—and adds, “And I don’t care whether he’s listening or not.”
Alek leans forward. “What did you learn out there?”
Jimmy keeps it grounded. “This isn’t just one sadistic guy with a microphone. There are layers. People with money. People with systems. People who planned contingencies.”
“And the world?” Hannah asks. “We all know it’s running out of time. What about The One?”
“I . . . don’t know,” Jimmy says earnestly. “I still believe that we need to do something. Anything. We’re watching flashpoints stack up. It’s not one headline. It’s the pattern.”
“Enough with the sermons, mate,” Tipton says. “What’s your point?”
“I came into this thinking the competition was going to be fair,” Jimmy says, “but—”
“You’re saying it’s rigged?” Jack asks.
“I wish I could tell you more,” Jimmy says. “That wouldn’t be safe for any of you.” He looks up at the ceiling again, deliberate. “But if anyone’s listening—they should be worried.”
A voice answers from the doorway behind them.
“You might be the last person I worry about, Mr. Donaldson.”
They all turn at the same moment and see a tall, silver-haired man in a dark suit and open-necked white shirt, standing at the open door at the far end of the room.
“Good evening,” he says in a voice they recognize instantly.
The Host.
Wyatt Jordan, addressing no one in particular, says, “The man, the legend, the monster.”
Patrick Arrasmith