Chapter 6
Clara
Iknow all about the cognitive effects of solitary confinement. It’s come up a few times while studying the punishment component of my criminal justice major. But I never thought I’d have to live through it personally.
Already today I’ve taken two showers and a bath, intermingled with drawing on the walls using a piece of charcoal I found hiding in a cranny of the chimney.
I debated whether I should destroy what is likely ungodly expensive artisan wallpaper, but in the end, I went for it.
If Trips’ dad refuses to give me entertainment, I’ll use my time doing whatever the hell I want. If he’s pissed, well, that’s on him.
I started with spirals and patterns, like I did when I was bored during middle school, but I found myself working on more realistic images as the sun moved higher in the sky.
A pretty good impression of Fluffington now guards the bathroom, his ear tufts making me even more homesick than I already am.
It turns out that perfecting my cartoon kitten skills for little Isabella a lifetime ago has been key to my continued sanity.
Unfortunately, my skills are non-transferable. I smeared out a failed attempt at drawing Jansen by the bed, my heart aching with the mounting pressure of not knowing if he’s okay. If he’s even alive. If I should mourn or celebrate in the solitude of my plush blue prison.
After I pick over yet another silently delivered sandwich, I dig through the chimney, but there aren’t any more chunks of burned wood, so I save the last inch for tomorrow.
Out of activities, I brush my black hands against the Trips-sized sweatpants I’ve been living in for the last two days, then try to find the energy to throw myself yet another solo dance party.
I’ve heard muffled yells through the walls, Trips’ anger so close to the surface that I’m terrified for him. There’s nothing I can do about it, not right now, but I worry he’s breaking. I know I’m getting close myself.
Lying on the floor, waiting for the shadows on the ceiling to create a story, there’s a click at the door. I hop to my feet, hope so heavy in my chest that I’m half-ready to lay back down from the weight of it. The door swings open, Falk at the threshold.
“Hi,” I say, my voice cracking from lack of use, thrilled to see anyone.
Falk glances at the scratched patterns on the wall, then at my disheveled self. “You’re a runner, right? Like track and marathons?”
I nod, wondering why he’s asking.
“Get changed. We’re going out.”
I’m dressed and in the hallway so quickly I’m surprised I don’t hurt myself, Falk silently leading me out the front of the estate.
I follow him onto a path in the woods, the same one that Trips had brought me down last winter.
The one that finally convinced me we needed to run and regroup, our problems too big to solve while broken—both inside and out.
“Is it safe to talk?” I pant after a few minutes, the need for human interaction as necessary as the fresh air around me.
He glances at me. “Probably, but you never can be sure.” His face gets strangely calm. “How are you feeling about what happened with Smith?”
That’s definitely not a topic I want to talk about, but I don’t want to risk getting sent back to the house. “How do you think I’m feeling?” I ask, hoping that the redirect will keep me from having to share too much with a stranger.
“Like shit.” He’s silent as he winds deeper into the trees, the clearing from last winter impossible to pinpoint in the never-ending branches, the autumn leaves crunching under our feet. “I’d like to say the first kill is the worst, but that’s not always true. Sometimes, the worst is the worst.”
“I’m not sure I want to rack up the number of kills that earns you that granular level of knowledge,” I manage, my cardio pretty damn miserable after the last two plus months of my incarceration.
Five months of confinement for a lifetime of freedom.
A price I am happy to pay.
He doesn’t answer as we break into a gap in the trees, following the wall for a while before he finds another winding path in the woods to duck into. “I didn’t think you’d do it,” he says once we’re deep amongst the falling leaves.
“What would have happened if I hadn’t?”
“Smith would have been dead regardless of your actions. Your pink-haired friend would be in jail. If we could find her, that is. We haven’t spotted her on campus.
For what it’s worth, she’s frighteningly competent for somebody who hasn’t trained as a medic.
Oh, and if your blond boyfriend pops up anywhere, he’s going to jail, too.
Unless he has the boss’s blood-type. Then I can’t guarantee his outcome. ”
“His liver isn’t up for grabs,” I state.
His gaze is dark as he glances at me. “Nobody’s should be.” He switches to a lighter tone, and I know he’s fishing. He’s not on our side. I have to remember that. “Do you know where the two of them disappeared to?”
That’s a question I can answer clearly, joy springing bright behind my ribs—Jansen didn’t end up in the hospital. “I have no idea where they are.”
His next question is quiet, like we’re sharing secrets. “How are you communicating with them? How did he know there’d be trouble with Smith?”
I choke out a laugh that turns into a coughing fit as I try to catch my breath, my lungs aching from lack of use.
“Jansen doesn’t plan. He just does shit and hopes for the best. It’s freeing, and one of his most endearing traits.
Most of the time, anyway.” I allow myself a small smile, content that at least for now, he’s healing.
Otherwise, Falk wouldn’t ask where he is.
“It looked like a plan. He saved your life.”
“He almost lost his life. That’s not a plan.”
We run out of tree cover, and jog into an open expanse by the lake, the water green with end-of-season algae. At least Trips’ dad still bows to the whims of nature.
Falk and I stay silent, my legs burning as we circle the large lawn.
But when he leads me toward one of the many entrances to the rose garden, my feet stop.
Even with most of the late-season roses giving up, their faded rosehips perched at the end of spiked branches, no scent in the air, I’m not sure I can go in there, not right now.
Courtesy of Bryce’s favorite apology gift, I’ll never love roses.
But after killing a man surrounded by them?
I’m not going in there. Not if I can help it.
Falk halts when he sees I’m no longer following.
“Can we go another way?” My heart thunders, not because of the run. I force myself to keep breathing, an anxiety attack a weakness I can’t have in this house. Not without major repercussions.
Falk looks over his shoulder at the densely packed bushes, but he turns around, going back in the direction we came from. Once we’re safely in the woods, he speaks first, my heart and breath still wonky, the scent of fallen leaves helping keep me present.
“So you’re not as invulnerable as you appear.”
“Even Superman had Kryptonite,” I mutter, causing him to choke out a laugh at my expense.
“And yours is now roses?”
“You assume they’re a new nemesis.”
His next look is searching, but he doesn’t ask for details.
I wish Trips and I could have an actual conversation so we can decide how much we’re trusting this man.
Last time we checked in, we decided we could be honest about ourselves with him.
But if we can get him on our side, the rest of our plan becomes much easier, even if it puts Falk in more danger.
I change the topic to a safer one. “Do you know when I’ll see Trips?
Or if we’re due to be let out again soon?
The paper homework, while nice, isn’t the same as attending school.
” What would I give for one uninterrupted minute with any of my guys?
I’m antsy enough that a tiny part of me wishes stones were flammable, so I could just light up this horrible place and be done with it.
Going to prison for arson wouldn’t get me what I want though, so I have to stay the course. Unfortunately.
“I have no idea. As my punishment, I’m no longer privy to plans as they’re being made—I’m back to being a grunt.”
“Is that better or worse?”
“Depends on the day.”
We jog beside the outer wall again, both of us silent while in view of the cameras. Once we’re back in the woods, I ask my most burning question. “Has Trips been let out? Will he?”
“No,” is his simple reply.
The ache grows bigger, heavier, competing with the sting in my lungs and the burn in my legs for my attention.
“Do you want me to pass on any messages? If I see him first?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at me, the end of the woods barely visible ahead.
For what has to be the hundredth time, I wish I’d spent less time perfecting a written code and more time figuring out coded speech or sign language. “Just that I miss him,” I say. A truth and a test.
If Trips gets the message, that’s another tally in the ‘maybe trust Falk’ column.
I hope Falk ends up on our side. We could use the help.