I dropped my hands, staring off. I thought for sure Godzilla and the granola bar was Will, but this was snuck into my locker, as well. And it was done tonight. This wasn’t in my bag before I went swimming.

There was no way he’d done this. Unless he buttered up a girl to do it for him.

It did look like a guy’s penmanship, though.

I raised my eyes, making out his black T-shirt and chocolate-colored hair as he stood near a pool table inside Sticks.

He wouldn’t have to look for me, because I had a question that needed answering.

See you on the bus tomorrow night, Will Grayson.

Emory

Present

I blinked my eyes open, the blurry room in front of me slowly coming into view. The weight of a truck sat on my back, and I rolled myself over, peeling my face off the pillow.

My arm draped over the other half of the empty bed.

It was just a dream.

I stared at the ceiling, still feeling him next to me in bed, but I knew he wasn’t there. He was closer than ever now, but I felt his absence more than I ever did.

Tears ached behind my eyes, remembering how he felt and how much I really wanted to feel that again right now.

He barely looked at me yesterday. He always looked at me.

God, who put me in Blackchurch? My brother wouldn’t have the clout for this. I’d heard he’d married, but it had been years since I’d seen him. Why now?

No, it had to be someone else. Someone who wanted to give Will his revenge and didn’t give a shit about me.

There were lots of possibilities.

Sitting up, I winced at the soreness in my stomach, and I reached out, tonguing the cut on my lip. It was funny, and I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t mind the pain. I actually kind of liked it. It was familiar. It reminded me that I was alive.

Strange as it was the past several years—free and on my own—I hadn’t felt that in a long time.

Climbing out of bed, I found my glasses on the nightstand and slipped them on, looking down at my boxers and tank top. Aydin had undressed me when he put me to bed, offering me some bottoms from his drawer. I looked around the room, not sure where he’d slept, but he’d stayed out after he patched me up last night.

Walking to the mirror, I turned and looked at myself.

My hair had coiled and ratted, wild and messy as it fell around my face and down my chest and arms. Dried blood coated my left nostril, and the skin on the inside corner of my right eye was purple. My cheek was red from where he’d slapped me, a cut adorned my bottom lip, and a white bandage was wrapped around my upper right arm.

Reaching out, I touched my reflection in the mirror, feeling it. Remembering.

Every hair on my arms rose. Every inch of my skin hummed. The air coursed through my fingers, and the muscles in my legs flexed, standing tall and strong.

I curled my fingers into the mirror, alive.

I was a fighter once.

Closing my eyes, I flattened my hand against the mirror once more, feeling warmth from the other side.

Were one of them in there keeping an eye on me? Was Will in there?

“Hi,” someone said.

I opened my eyes and turned toward the door, seeing Micah stand there in black cargo pants, his hands full of stuff.

I backed away from the mirror, grabbing the sheet on the bed to cover myself as he entered the room in his bare feet.

“Some clothes,” he said, gesturing to the pile in his left hand. And then he set down a plate. “And in case you’re hungry.”

I looked at the juice, fruit, a small baguette, and a wedge of what looked like brie, my stomach growling. Aydin had soup brought up to me last night, but I couldn’t remember the last time I ate anything substantial, and I was starving.

Dropping the sheet, I grabbed the bread, broke it in half, and cut off some cheese with the butter knife, smearing it on the bread.

Lifting it to my mouth, I ripped off a piece with my teeth and chewed.

Jesus. My mouth salivated, and I almost felt nauseous at the taste because I was so hungry. I groaned, loading on more cheese and then drinking the juice.

“You want a bath?” he asked.

I looked over as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. His abs flexing and his hair hanging in his eyes, all messy-sexy.

I choked, coughing with my mouth full. “With you?”

He just chuckled, stuffing his T-shirt into his back pocket. “I’ll draw you one. You look rough,” he explained. “How do you feel?”

I opened my mouth to say ‘fine’ or ‘I’m hanging in there’, but surprisingly, I just nodded. “Good.”

I took another bite and stuffed a piece of apple in, too.

I felt good.

Weird.

Walking to the tub in the corner of the room—that wasn’t in the bathroom, maybe because the previous owner of the house liked his wife to bathe in full view of the bed—he started the water, dipping his hand in the stream and adjusting the temperature.

“Rory told me what you did,” he said, sitting on the edge of the tub and looking over at me. “Thank you.”

I’d seen enough in my twenty-four hours here to know all wasn’t what it seemed. Rory was the one who’d spoken in the cellar yesterday. The one who didn’t want me here, hoped I’d die out there, and liked things just as they were because he had all he needed here.

“Are you and him…?”

I didn’t finish, just letting him figure it out.

He smiled and looked back at the water, but I caught the blush on his face.

I ate some more fruit and the rest of the bread before finishing the juice he’d brought me. Everything tasted so good, probably because I knew it was safe. If they’d wanted to drug me, they could’ve already done it.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Maybe noon.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Time isn’t relevant here.”

I wiped my mouth with the napkin, studying him. “Do you know how long you’ve been here?”

“A little over a year, judging by how many times the crew comes to restock us and clean,” he told me. “We’ve all been here a while. Rory was the last to show up, about seven months ago.”

No clocks. No calendars. No connection to the life outside. The only way to count the months was to count the resupplies.

It was like constantly waiting for something you weren’t sure would ever happen, much less when.

“You don’t seem like you should be here,” I told him.

He scooped some bath salts into the tub and pulled a towel and washcloth over from the nearby table.

With Stalinz Moreau as a father, I thought Micah would be different.

He stared at the water. “My father hasn’t been seen in public in nine years,” he explained. “He lives on a yacht that’s constantly moving from port to port, and the only way my five brothers and sister can see him is when we take a helicopter to follow whatever coordinates he sends us.”

I’d heard that somewhere. It was actually pretty smart. When you supplied weapons to terrorists and competing factions in third-world countries, upsetting the “consistency” of the tyranny already in power, many people would want you dead.

“People think wealth means choice and freedom,” he continued. “But oh, how I envied those filthy, barefoot kids running around some of the worst neighborhoods I drove through growing up.” He looked up at me, finally. “It’s nice not starving, but I don’t want to live like he does. I don’t want power. I don’t give a shit about money. I’ve had it, and now I’d just rather have peace of mind.”