IRIS
It’s a little past dawn by the time the four of us arrive in Culverton. Walking the winding dirt path with only one flashlight between us proves to be a slow and arduous task. By the time our feet hit real pavement, just outside the pawn shop, we’re all exhausted—both mentally and physically.
We didn’t talk much on the way here, aside from keeping each other apprised of uneven terrain. There’s a lot we want to say to one another. There are a lot of questions I’m sure I need to answer for them. But we seem to have formed a silent agreement that all of that will have to wait.
At least, I think we have, until—after several minutes of silence—Rose abruptly asks, “Was—was I really one of your trials?”
I do not want to talk about this right now. Or ever. I don’t want Rose to know that I’d been so weak as to actually consider doing what Sol had asked. But she deserves the truth, so I nod. “Yeah.”
“Huh.” She makes a noise that isn’t quite a laugh but is definitely laugh-adjacent. “I guess I should be honored. That he was so threatened by me.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“There are certainly other ways, but that’s the one I’m going with for now. For my own mental health. The idea of a grown man being afraid of me is kind of fun.”
I actually smile at that. Leave it to Rose to put a spin on the situation.
Zinnia’s eyes are wide as we make our way into town, taking in the outside world for the first time in several months. Her shoulders relax, there’s a spring in her step, and I swear, it’s as if she can breathe again. Poppy, on the other hand, shrinks, arms wrapped protectively around herself.
We pass Brophy’s, and I force myself to look at the store, to acknowledge what I’ve done.
The window I broke is boarded up, and the others are covered from the inside, so I can’t see exactly how much damage the fire did.
A sign on the front door reads, Closed Until Further Notice.
Guilt twists around my heart and constricts.
Beside me, I can feel Rose’s eyes on the store, too. Mercifully, though, she says nothing about it. Instead, she just gives my arm a gentle tug. “Come on. Let’s get to the police station.” And then, in a much-appreciated attempt to add a bit of levity, “That’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.”
We keep moving, watching street names and building numbers as we search for the address on the card Officer Harrington gave me. Eventually, Zinnia calls out, “Bet that’s it,” as she points ahead of us, to a small brick building with two black-and-white cop cars parked out front.
“I think so,” I say, and I realize that I’m shaking.
The police station is quiet. The combination of a small town and the early hour means there are no ringing phones, no hustle and bustle, only the clicking of keys and the scratching of pens as the small handful of people inside work on paperwork at their desks.
A young man with curly brown hair, badge pinned to his robin’s-egg-blue button-down shirt, sits closest to the door.
He looks up from his computer when we walk in, and his hazel eyes go wide when he sees the four of us.
I can feel him taking us in. Our oversized, mismatched clothes, the dried blood on my sleeve, the red and purple marks on Rose’s neck, and—I’m sure—the fear and uncertainty on all of our faces.
I take a step forward. “Is, um, is Officer Harrington here?”
The man focuses his gaze on me, eyes dropping to my bloody sleeve once more before he says, “She just left on patrol. But I can ask her to come back if this is an emergency.”
I nod. “It … Yeah. I think it is.”
“Okay.” His voice is so gentle. So careful. Like he’s talking to a timid rabbit who might hop away with the slightest provocation. “Let me radio her. Can I get your name, miss?”
I open my mouth to answer but stop. Iris isn’t my real name.
It’s the name Sol gave me. The name he used to help erode the girl I once was.
That girl is gone now. He even had me burn her name.
But maybe if I try—if I start right now—I could find her again.
Maybe she doesn’t have to be lost forever just because he and others before him tried to make me forget her.
Forget me.
I swallow, pull my dad’s leather jacket tighter around me, and take a deep breath.
“Caela … Michaela Grace Conroy.”