(Updated every Sunday)
I fall asleep to the disharmonious tune of my restless thoughts, the phone clutched in my hand—it's either a lifeline that could save me or a bomb detonating device that's capable of blowing up whatever is left of my life. I haven't decided yet. After a few hours of drifting in and out of sleep, I blink awake and make out the low, grave voices across the factory room. It's a contrast to the rowdiness before, but somehow, it's louder and immediately grabs my attention.
I stick the phone in my pocket and sit up. While most the teenagers are asleep, four of them are gathered over by the table, huddled and hunched over a map spread out across the tabletop. Marcus is shaking his head at something Willow is telling him. "That's stupid. Why are we taking a detour away from Denver when that's the whole point? We stick to I-70 until we get into the city and then we figure out how to go from there."
"In other words, Marcus wants to go in with guns blazing," Janie says in an amused tone. "No surprise there."
Pablo takes a swig from a beer can and swirls its contents around casually. He's the only one sitting at the table, one leg propped up on another chair. "He's got a point. The last time we tried to play it safe, as brainy girl suggested, we were too late. Just saying."
They don't notice me approaching until I say, "Too late for what?"
Janie's eyes find me before she looks away, shifting uncomfortably. Pablo's eyebrow goes up tauntingly, and I know he's loving the fact that I'm on the outside looking in. Marcus levels a cool, unflinching stare at me. Only Willow says something. "April. You're awake."
"Obviously," I answer, wondering if the world will ever stop feeling so bizarre. "But I'm guessing you don't want me to be."
"April, it's not that," Janie says, her expression bordering on guilty. "You've been through a lot in the last few months. We all have, but it was hardest on you because of your condition. You have a new lease on life, thanks to Willow, and we don't want to do anything to jeopardize that."
"You're saying keeping me in the dark is for my own benefit?"
"The less you know about your past, the better the odds that Willow's hypnosis will hold. Reminders will undo all of that work. You'll start to remember what we've been through and then . . ."
"I'll blank," I finish for her. It makes sense, but it doesn't mean I'm happy to acquiesce. I don't like feeling so unanchored and unguarded. I cross my arms and look directly at Marcus. "If you're trying to spare me stress, you're not doing a very good job of it."
Marcus's lips twist into a humorless smile. "Sorry I can't play the loving boyfriend because the princess demands it."
It feels like there's barbed wire around my heart, and someone is tugging at it. As far as my memory goes, it was literally yesterday that we were together in my hospital room and working on mending our broken trust. I didn't like the way he had handled our escape from the stress facility, the ill-conceived plan that was meant to save us while simultaneously keeping him in Jonathan Blaine's good graces, but I saw beneath all that to a conflicted boy who wanted to do the right thing and didn't know what that meant.
I saw his heart that day. I held it in my hands in the hospital room, saw it bleed red from his sorrow and confusion and felt its heartbeat strengthen with his growing hope that redemption was possible for someone like him. I heard his heart beat in harmony with mine, so what could have caused this discord between us?
Maybe it's because of my condition. Marcus couldn't put up with the monster I was turning into. How could he? He was trained for most of his life to eliminate people like me. To hate them. It must have killed him to treat me like I'm a normal human being when I'm not.
"Can we talk?" I say, the words choked in my throat.
"Busy." He waves a hand dismissively as he stares at the map. "I don't have time to waste."
The wire digs deeper into my heart. "Okay. Well. I'll leave you guys to it."
"Where are you going?" Janie calls after me as I head for the corridor.
When I don't answer, I hear her chiding Marcus for being insensitive and close my eyes at the impatient rumble of his voice. I'm too far away to make out his words, which is a small mercy. I don't think I can stand hearing all the ways he hates me now. One more slice of the barbed wire and I'll be drowning in my own blood.
I follow the stairs to the top floor, using the light from the cellphone as I shove open a jammed door and take in the office in front of me. The worn leather chair lets out a puff of dust when I sink into it. I place the phone face-up on the desk and lean back in the chair, grateful for the cocoon of silence while simultaneously hating what it means.
Loneliness. It was a shroud I used to wear comfortably before the stress facility. Now it feels stifling, a reminder of things I held once and lost. Carson is dead for all I know. Alec took the life of my stepfather in a moment of rage. Willow is as much of a stranger to me as she was the day we met. Janie is a stranger, no matter how warm and friendly she might be now.
And I've lost Marcus.
Oh, God. I'm gripped by pain so intense that I clutch my chest. It shouldn't hurt this much to lose someone I didn't know for more than a couple of weeks, but this ache runs too deep. It's the kind of pain that comes from love and affection and overpowering attachment.
I love him. My mind might not remember it, but my heart does and it's feeling the full effects of heartbreak. This can't be what my life has become, can it? Losing everyone I care about, including a boy I loved so deeply I can still sense the echo of such a profound feeling?
Are you going to sit there and feel sorry for yourself?
My spine straightens. No, Sam. I'm not that selfish.
I pick up the phone and thumb through the texts I was too distressed to check earlier. They all date back to two months. That must be around the time I got this phone—or replaced the one I had before it. No messages from Marcus, which tells me something. Our problems started before then. Most of the texts between me and the others are informational.
Almost there.
Meet you at the park after lunch.
Wait for the signal.
None of them mean anything substantial now, but they indicate activity and action. Planning. Coordination. I'm surprised that I was usually on the receiving end of commands. I didn't expect to be like Marcus, charging around and giving orders, but there doesn't seem to be a single text that suggests I made any decisions in what the group did.
The tone of the texts changes as time progresses. The ones dated a few weeks ago are more urgent, exasperated, and usually from Willow.
Where the hell are you?
Marcus is leaving. You're going to split up the group if you don't hurry up.
You need to decide if he's worth your life.
I stare at the last message, my heart racing. Who is he? The mysterious person who texted me? I can't make sense of this, and the only way I'm going to figure it out is to ask someone. Willow is out of the question. She wouldn't want to undo her precious hypnosis.
Which leaves the mystery guy.
Before I chicken out, I send a quick text.
Me: Who is this?
The phone buzzes loudly two seconds later and I startle in the shadowy office.
Him: April?
He's crazy if he thinks I'm going to identify myself. I wait until the phone vibrates a bunch of times again.
Him: I could give you my name but you won't remember it.
Him: I need to see you. Please.
Him: Can you meet me at the old windmill north of the tracks?
Him: I know you're leaving tomorrow morning, but we still have a few hours.
Him: I'll send you the address.
I frown when the address pops up in another text. How stupid does he think I am?
Me: You expect me to trust you. This could be a trap for all I know. You need to give me more than that.
He doesn't respond to my message for almost five minutes. In that time, I look up the address. He's about a five-minute walk from here. Practically in our backyard. Very dangerous proximity for someone who could potentially hurt us.
The phone finally buzzes.
Him: If I was the bad guy, I would've told the police you're staying at the Marshalls warehouse on Robin Street.
So the police are also after us. Oh, great.
Him: I'm on your side. You gave me your number because you trust me.
Him: I can't give you too many details over the phone but it'll make sense when you get here.
I lay the phone on the desk again and stare at it, my mind plotting out all possible outcomes. All pros and cons, risks and rewards, gains and losses. My gut is sending me messages the rest of me has a hard time accepting. That I can trust him, that I need to go to him if I want answers. That I shouldn't let the others find out about this or something bad will happen.
I sum it all up with one question: What do you have to lose, April?
At this point, nothing.
The keys for the front door are hanging on a hook on the wall. I guess it's not safe for one person to hold on to them: the rest of us would be trapped in here if things turned south. Moving quietly, I undo the chains and dart out in the night. I'm wearing a coat this time, also stolen from the hook on the wall. It's ill-fitting, the sleeves practically swallowing my hands, but it gets the job done. I can barely feel the bite of burgeoning winter through its thick layers.
I navigate my way over the train tracks and nearly lose my footing as I stumble down a steep hill covered in loose dirt and rocks. The windmill looms ahead of me like many-armed sentinel in the night. It's not until I'm a hundred feet from it that I notice the dark figure in front of it, sitting against a picket fence with his hands buried in his pockets.
When he spots me, he shoves back the hood of his black jacket and hurries toward me with a huge grin on his mouth. He's a tall lanky guy with a head of curly dark locks and a friendly and charming face. A strange prickle of recognition teases my brain. I know him from somewhere. He looks familiar. And when he reaches me and swoops me into a tight embrace . . . he feels familiar.
"I didn't think I'd see you again," he breathes against my ear. "I'm so happy you're here."
I'm stunned into silence when he pulls back and presses a kiss to my lips. Even that feels eerily familiar. My body revolts at the thought that this stranger knows me in such an intimate way when I don't even have a clue what his name is.
I shove him back and give him a look that makes it clear I don't appreciate the handsy attitude. "Don't touch me. I don't even know you."
The boy's grin fades. His eyes search my face, looking for remnants of the girl he knew. I guess he doesn't find her because his shoulders slump. "I'm sorry. I guess I got overexcited. I knew they'd do this to you someday. I was so worried what it would mean for us."
"Us?" I say, unable to hold back a wince. "Maybe you should start at the beginning."
"My name is Davey."
The name makes a bell go off somewhere far in the distance, but it means nothing to me. "Sorry. I have no idea who you are or why you are texting me. Are you a Mod? I don't remember you from the facility. And why aren't you traveling with us if you are? You know, it doesn't say a lot about you that you're skulking around in the dark and hiding from the group."
He's shaking his head the whole time I'm speaking. "Look, I could tell you that I've known you for almost six months now or that we've become really close since then or even that I'm the only person you really trust in the world, but you're not going to believe me. So I'm going to show you proof of our connection."
I take a step back when he starts toward me, which makes him roll his eyes. "I'm just getting to my car."
"I have no intention of getting in a car with you."
"And I don't expect you to. But there's something you have to see."
He moves quickly with the grace of a runner, already halfway to the old car parked on the road by the time I start moving. He peeks into the backseat and then straightens up, gesturing for me to do the same. I hang back. We're the only two souls out here. I should have brought the handgun in my backpack.
As if sensing my reluctance, he reaches into his pocket and tosses something at my feet. A switchblade that's identical to the one I have in my backpack. What did we do? Shop together for weaponry? Do we have matching t-shirts somewhere that I don't know about? I have to admit, it's one more thing that adds to the layers of familiarity around him.
That small amount of trust shrivels up when I pick up the blade and close the distance between us. There's a shape of a person in the backseat, huddled into a ball on the seat. The person is asleep or unconscious, hands handcuffed in front of his body.
Gasping, I flick the switchblade open and point it at him. "What the hell is this?"
"Whoa, whoa!" he yells, lifting his hands. "It's not what you think."
"You expect me to believe you have a good reason for this? You're a freaking serial killer, for all I know." Bad move, April. So much for trusting my gut. From now on, I'm going to stick with my head no matter how broken it is at the moment.
I back away from him and chance another glance at the person in his backseat. My body freezes up. My new angle puts me in better sight, and for the first time I get a clear look at the rounded, angelic face, the disheveled red-brown hair, the medium-sized build. He looks so different, bruised and battered and malnourished, but I'd recognize him anywhere.
My knees buckle.
"Carson?"