Chapter Twenty-Five
VIVID DREAMS OF SLING’S TOILET swirl through my subconscious.
I sit tall on a throne of porcelain, flushing again and again simply because I can.
It never ceases to satisfy me, watching the clear water get sucked down the drain.
The toilet makes a whirring noise, and I giggle with giddiness. Only, my laughs soon turn to screams.
The toilet opens its wide mouth and drags me under. I spin around, my shoulders submerged beneath the surface. The water is warm as it inches up my neck, reaches my chin, then wets my lips.
No. This can’t be happening.
I take one final breath before my head plunges into the water and—
I awake with a scream, my body soaked in sweat.
Sheets swaddle me like a cocoon, warm from the sunlight streaming through the window.
I twist and turn until I’m free, then use the small dresser next to the bed to hoist myself up.
My palm slides on a thin sheet of paper.
Clara’s drawing. Clara. A child armed with crayons and a gun.
A wave of curiosity overwhelms me. What if there’s a gun in the dresser?
I yank it open.
There’s no gun. What was I thinking? Of course there’s no gun. Jasper wouldn’t be so careless.
But the drawer isn’t empty. A stack of elongated, curled papers rests on the bottom, covered in dust. Unlike Clara’s scratch sheet, these papers are worn but smooth, like they were glossy once upon a time.
7 Deadly Zins. My father’s favorite wine. These are wine labels.
I squint at the collage next to the mirror, and it dawns on me that the art was made with these labels. Jasper may not have gone to art school, but he’s been practicing his craft.
My bedroom door flings open. Jasper stands in the doorframe, his head brushing the top. He doesn’t look at me as he says, “Time to go.”
I narrow my eyes. “Go where, exactly?”
“The warehouse. We’re meeting with Chief and Chandler.”
My chest pounds. Has he asked Chief to push up the meeting to spite me for speaking out yesterday? If anything, I should be angry at him. Not for hiding me, but for confusing me. I’m not ready to go home, and I’m not sure I ever will be. But I have to—for them.
Everything you do is for your family, Kota. They are all you have left. Food and freedom mean nothing without them.
Either way, I need more time. More time to figure out my next move. When I return to Egal, I need a solid plan to get Bunny and Grandma the meds they’ll need routinely. If Peter’s words yesterday are to be trusted, there’s no way they’ll survive on cut rations.
I spring out of bed. “I’ve only been here a day. I thought the meeting was in two days.”
Jasper pulls his gaze toward me, his brown eyes soft.
Fuck. And I need more time with Jasper.
“That was before yesterday’s Costco fiasco.” With disappointment clear in his voice, he adds, “The meeting got pushed up.” I press my fingers into my temples and close my eyes. “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out in the end.”
A day ago, I wouldn’t have asked, but after being ripped from my life and having my beliefs thrown into a fucking Vitamix, I use my voice. “Work out in the end? In whose favor—yours or mine?”
“Depends on what you want,” Jasper says, stepping toward me. “What is it that you want, Kota?”
A long silence stretches between us. I turn away, my eyes catching on the Quaker bar wrapper still crumpled on the bedside table. Finally, I say, “To go home.”
The words taste fishy on my tongue.
“Well,” Jasper says, his face unreadable. Does he believe me? Do I believe me? “If all goes to plan, then you’ll go home.” Jasper pauses as he turns to leave, hand gripping the doorframe. “But you probably know by now that, inside the Split, plans tend to blow up.”
He leaves without waiting for my response.
EITHER LAST NIGHT’S RABBIT MADE my thighs stronger, or I’ve just grown numb to the pain that is riding on bike pegs. Probably the latter. Definitely the latter.
We reach the same squat gray building that housed my first conscious arrival on this side of the Split. A blast of cold wind twists through the air and shocks me into the moment. We’ve arrived. I hop off Jasper’s bike, and I hug my hoodie tighter around me.
A pang of nervousness rips through my core, but I shove it down with the other myriad of emotions I’m feeling.
Loss. Confusion. Anger. No, not anger. Rage.
Because, as emboldened as I’ve become, I’ll enter this building as nothing more than the chess piece Chandler and Chief see me as.
If the powers that be decide to keep me in Macoby, I’ll lose my family.
But if I’m tossed back into Egal, I’ll once again be Chandler’s bitch.
Where’s the equality in that?
My spine crawls as I walk into the windowless building. This building, this shadowed, dingy warehouse where I was drugged and held captive, holds the keys to my future. Going back in is the only way out.
The hallways are musty, windowless, the darkness all-consuming. My best guess is that, once upon a time, this building functioned as a storage unit, given the endless rows of metal roll-up doors. Now, with the lack of anything besides burnt-out lights and mold to focus on, my thoughts spiral.
I wonder how Grandma’s latest loaf turned out. Was it golden and flaky? I wonder if Bunny’s pricked her finger again with a syringe. Is she angry with me, thinking I’ve left of my own volition? Will she hug me or hate me when I go home?
If. If I go home.
This hallway is endless. I wouldn’t even be in this devilish, transient space if it weren’t for Peter.
He probably fucked Zara yesterday, in some pathetic attempt to gain power after the failed mission.
To pretend he’s a man, though he’s nothing more than a boy.
Is her lipstick smeared across his cheek? Does he prefer her kisses to mine?
Fine. My lips aren’t meant for him any longer.
“Through here,” Jasper says, ducking under a small doorway at the end of the hall.
I enter behind him, thankful for the room’s dim lighting.
A flame lantern hangs precariously from the ceiling, slapped up with duct tape that peels at the corners.
It’s so cold my breath leaves warm, white clouds in the air.
A musty smell showers me in memories of Bunny hiding in the back of Grandma’s old closet. Come out, come out wherever you are!
And there they are. In the center of the room, Chief and Chandler sit facing each other, divided only by the metal table between them.
Chandler’s back is to me, and she doesn’t turn when we enter.
Red hair is pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head.
Maybe that’s why she concocted ridiculous rules—because the strain on her brain was pulling out her rational thoughts.
I smile despite myself, and Chief returns it.
He gestures for me to sit in one of two empty seats, next to Chandler, and I’d rather smash my head into a rock.
As I take a step forward, I trip over my shoelaces and plummet face-first. I nearly slam into the cold, hard floor when Jasper grips my arms and pulls me upright.
Thank you, I mouth to him.
Chandler spins around in her seat.
My stomach curls.
“Kota,” Chandler says, her voice lacking any warmth. “Pleasure.”
Pleasantries be damned. I offer a curt nod and take the seat next to her. She smells like evergreens, as usual, but there’s a disinfectant-like tinge to it I hadn’t noticed before. Jasper sits opposite me, his presence more soothing than I care to admit.
“Let’s cut to the chase.” Chief lays his fists on the table. “We’re here to trade. Chandler, you have our men. We have her.”
Her.
“Kota,” Jasper and I say at the same time.
Chandler rolls her eyes so far back that her pupils disappear. For a second, I fear I’ll be staring at her bloodshot, yellowish whites forever.
Then her soulless gaze snaps back into place.
“I do not have your men.”
Chief leans forward. “Yes, you do. Eagan and Garrett went missing on the 20th of September—about two months ago.”
“And? Lots of men go missing outside the Split—both Egals and Macs. Where’s your proof I had anything to do with it?”
Chief pulls a device out of his pocket. He sets it on the table and presses a red button. Beep. My ears fill with static and crackles and pops. Two voices, in conversation, project from the speaker.
A male voice with a Southern drawl says, “We don’t have what you want.”
Even in the poor recording, the distress in his voice is clear as day.
“You are what I want,” says the woman, her voice straight-laced.
“We have nothing to offer you.”
“You’re not listening. You are the offering.”
“Why me? Why us?”
Chandler clears her throat and reaches for the recording device, but Chief snatches it away and holds it out of arm's reach. She says, “There’s no way of telling who’s speaking. It could be anyone.”
The woman’s voice on the recording continues. “You know things about the virus—things I don’t. I’ve made progress, but I need more information. More science.”
“Chandler,” the man pleads, “we don’t have any idea how to stop it. We can’t help you. Please let us go.”
“Young man, there are more ways you can be of use to me than you think.”
The recording stops, and Chief places the device back on the table.
Jasper leans back in his seat and crosses his hands behind his head. “I only know one Chandler in the Split. How about you, Chief?”
Chandler shifts in her chair and turns to me.
Her red brows knit together like fiery snakes.
“Kota,” she says, “you remember this day, don’t you?
I took you and the boys too close to the city—T.J.
Maxx, I think. You were up in arms about the trip.
Eventually, I listened to your pleas and we returned.
The two young men speaking are Milo and Peter, not Eagan and Garrett, like these two imbeciles think. You do remember, don’t you?”