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Callie’s eyebrows snap together. “What are you talking about?”
I shake my head at her, all the anger draining out of me. I shrug, my whole body lifeless and so tired. “Forget it. ”
“Whatever’s going on with you,” Callie says, “you need to remember who you are. Fast. It’s us against them. ” She grabs my hand, but this time her grip is gentle. Her voice is soft as she says, “We’re your family. We love you. We’re the ones who would do anything for you. Don’t forget it. ”
“I never do,” I say. It’s hard to speak around the burning knot of tears in my throat.
Callie gives my hand one final squeeze. “You have to do this, Ivy, or everything falls apart. Think how proud Dad will be when it’s over. ” She gives me a little smile and takes a few steps backward, eyes still on mine. “Don’t make Bishop Lattimer more important than he is. He wouldn’t do the same for you. ”
I stay on the sidewalk for a long time after she’s gone. Is it still manipulation if you know it’s happening, but it works anyway?
I wake when it’s dark outside. I lay on my back, my eyes cloudy with sleep, and try to figure out what woke me. At first there’s nothing, only the faint sound of birds outside the window, the whir of the ceiling fan above my head. I’m about to roll over and try to get a little more sleep when I hear it again, the sound of a kitchen cabinet closing. It’s earlier than Bishop is usually up and he’s trying hard to be quiet. I can tell because the sounds coming from the kitchen are careful, the tread of his feet light.
I startle him when I appear in the kitchen doorway, still rubbing sleep from my eyes. Belatedly, I realize I’m dressed only in a tank top and my underpants, but I guess it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, given the bikini I wore to the river. “What are you doing?” I ask.
He is wearing a T-shirt and shorts, his hair unruly from sleep. His eyes skim over my bare legs then rise to my face. I manage not to blush. “Nothing,” he says. He’s not trying to hide the open backpack on the counter, but I can tell he doesn’t want me to notice it, either. “It’s early. You can go back to bed if you want. ”
“Okay. ” I turn and pad back to the bedroom but don’t crawl into bed. Instead, I throw on clothes and shoes, pull my hair up into a bun on the top of my head, and wait until I hear the front door close softly behind him. Then I sprint to the kitchen for a jug of water and slip out after him.
I don’t really think through why I’m following him, but I want to know what he’s up to, why he’s keeping something secret from me. Which is ridiculous, given the number of secrets I have from him. But I want to discover what he’s doing and I’m not above sneaking around in order to find out.
Following him without being seen or heard is difficult. He walks the same route as we took to the river, at least at first, but he navigates fast and sure through the woods, barely slowing for downed tree limbs or branches that effortlessly reach out and find places on me to scratch. I’m hoping the sound of his footfalls drown mine out because I’m hardly quiet, practically having to run to keep sight of him in spots.
I begin to hear the river to our right and know the pool is close, but he veers left, off the path, and straight into the tangled undergrowth. I lean against a tree trunk for a second to catch my breath before heading after him. Vines tangle around my ankles and foliage snatches at my bare arms. I manage to sidestep a large rock half buried in the ground, but my foot snags on a tree root and I go down hard, landing on my right shoulder.
I lay there for a minute, breathing through gritted teeth. I’m not hurt so much as stunned, although a tiny rivulet of blood runs down my arm. This was such a bad idea, but it’s too late to turn back now. I have to know what he’s doing. I push myself to my knees and then to my feet and head after him. I’ve completely lost sight of him and I cock my head, hoping to hear something. Nothing but silence. Risking the noise, I run in the direction Bishop was last headed, leaping over obstacles and straining for any glimpse of his blue T-shirt.
I stop again, listening. There’s the faint sound of voices coming from ahead and slightly to my right. They are difficult to hear over the leaves whispering in the early morning breeze. I can’t hear what the voices are saying, but I’m positive the deeper one is Bishop’s. I move slowly now, careful to set each foot down quietly as I move in the direction of the sound.
I’m not sure exactly where I am. I can no longer hear the river, but up ahead and through the trees I see sunlight glinting off metal. The fence. What is Bishop doing at the fence? Maybe he’s talking to one of the patrol guards? My breathing is labored and not only from running. I inch closer, stopping right on the edge of the tree line and hiding myself behind a wide trunk.
The fence stretches in either direction, a large gate set into it about ten yards to my left. Is this where the prisoners are put out? There is a patch of grass and weeds about twelve feet wide between the tree line and the fence. Directly in front of me, Bishop is crouched next to the fence, talking to a figure laying on the ground on the other side. I press myself against the trunk and crane my neck to try and get a closer look. It’s a girl on the ground, her long hair tangled around her face like a dirty cloud. The only skin visible is one mud-encrusted foot. It looks more bone than flesh.
“Come on,” Bishop says. “Take the water. Please. ” He shoves a slim container of water through a gap in the fence, but it falls to the ground on the other side. The girl makes no move to reach for it. She looks dead, but I know she must not be if Bishop is talking to her.
“Hey, I already told you, stop wasting your time with her,” a man’s voice calls, and my head whips to the side, scanning the fence line. It takes me a minute to locate the source of the voice. There’s a man sitting outside the fence, most of him camouflaged by long grass. I catch a flicker of shrewd blue eyes. Mark Laird. My blood freezes in my veins. There’s no sign of the two men put out with him. Maybe they’ve moved on, looking for shelter, food, water. Maybe he killed them. Either possibility seems likely.
Bishop ignores him, doesn’t even turn his head. He pushes some bread through the fence. It meets the same fate as the water, landing untouched on the ground.
“Don’t give her that!” Mark protests as he pulls himself to standing using the chain-link fence for leverage. He’s favoring his right leg. He was walking fine yesterday. “She’s practically dead anyway! You’re feeding a corpse. ”
“Shut up,” Bishop says, still not looking at Mark. I’ve never heard him sound so cold. He bends his head down, says something else to the girl that I can’t hear, but she doesn’t respond. After a minute, he stands with a sigh. I shrink back into the shadows of the tree.
Bishop walks over to Mark and shoves another container of water and more bread through the fence. Unlike the girl, Mark doesn’t waste any time before grabbing them, groping on the ground like the food and water might disappear if he’s not quick enough. Bishop watches, his face a blank mask I do not recognize.
“You need to find water,” Bishop says. “The river is that way. ” He points to the east with his head. “Food may be more difficult, but I’m sure you’ll figure something out. ”