“Is he—” He gags on his words. “My brave and loyal friend.” I can hardly see through my tears. My father’s voice breaks, and his body trembles. “I owe you my life, brother. I owe you the universe … You sacrificed everything for my daughter, and for that I’m eternally grateful.” His chest heaves, his mouth still lined with blood from the beating he endured. “From here on out, everything I do … will be in your honor.”
I reach across Sutton’s body to embrace my dad as he weeps. His thin shoulders wrack in my arms, and he gasps for air. “He should be here,” I say. “Not me.”
Because I’m dying anyway.
“He choose you.” My father’s voice breaks. He takes a deep, shaky breath. “But once again, we’re left behind, to bear the pain of losing him.” He sits back and brings his fist across his face to wipe his tears. His chin trembles as he tries to stop, but one glance at Sutton, and he begins crying again. He twists his hands in his lap, whispering and praying words I can’t hear.
I can’t tear myself away. Not from Sutton. Not from what just happened. The announcement from the United Powers plays over once more in the background.
Nothing in the world could force me to smile, even though we’ve won. We lost Sutton, whose voice I’ll never hear again. My heart aches and rejoices, filled with overwhelming emotions I can’t rein in. Because Cole is alive, along with my dad, even after I believed both of them dead. Guilt eats at me. I traded one dad for the other when finally I had them both.
“Excuse me, sir?” an unfamiliar voice cuts in. Zeus growls. We all turn toward the man in the crisp, blue uniform with the crest of the United Powers on it. “I’m Officer Delun, in charge of this quadrant. We’re securing the area, so you need to leave at this time.” My father nods in shock.
“That’s not a problem,” Dad says. “Except, my friend here deserves a proper burial. His name was Sutton. You might recognize his name.”
Cole’s hand goes to mine, and he helps me stand. He wraps his arm around me even though the butt of his gun juts into my waist.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Officer Delun says. “And you’re right, I’ve heard nothing but great things about him. I assure you he will be taken care of.”
“Thank you,” my father says. “It’s much appreciated.”
“As for the rest of you, we’ll be conducting a series of interviews collecting as much information as possible about the lab, the testing, the virus, and anything else you deem important,” Officer Delun continues. “And if there’s even the slightest chance you’ve been exposed to the virus, please inform us right away.” The man’s stoic voice and alert eyes remind me of Roméo’s.
“Yes, of course,” my father says.
Cole and I move back from Sutton as Dad gives Officer Delun his information. The officer takes it down on a large notepad while others lift Sutton’s body and carry it away. They give us concerned, empathetic looks before leaving. It feels surreal. Afterward, I watch as the soldiers begin cleaning up other bodies and the stage. Sinners come out from everywhere to rejoice. The handful of children left converge on the supplies, cheering as the soldiers share candy with them.
“Hey, Dad?” I tug on his sleeve like I used to as a little girl, and he looks at me. “Before Sutton died … he told me to make sure you knew.”
“Knew what?” he asks. Cole listens from beside me.
My heart’s being slashed with razor blades knowing what I’m about to tell them will shatter their world. My dad’s losing his daughter, and Cole’s losing the girl he loves.
“Lexi, tell me what Sutton said,” my dad insists.
“He lied,” I say, my voice dripping with sadness. “I’m so sorry.” I hiccup. “My test wasn’t negative. It was … positive.”
“That’s not possible,” my dad says.
“What test?” Cole asks urgently.
Dad scrunches up his eyebrows, deep in thought. Then he looks at Cole’s arm around me, and his mouth opens slightly.
“Tell me!” Cole insists, but I can’t find the words to say it. “What test?”
“For the vir—”
“Lexi,” a high-pitched voice cuts in. It sends a jolt of electricity through my body, and my fists clench. Wilson stands between two UP soldiers, a smug expression on his face. “This isn’t over! I will hunt you down. I will kill you, make no mistake about that.” He narrows his eyes even as he smiles. “I’m your worst nightmare.” The guards next to him grip his arms to keep him away from me. Officer Delun raises an eyebrow.
“You’re wrong,” I say. “I’m not afraid of you. I never was. Because behind your evil eyes lives a psychotic coward and blind idiot. You were so obsessed with me and my father … that you failed to notice Sutton was working against you this entire time … You were completely clueless that the heart and soul of bringing you down was right under your nose. He outsmarted you.” I laugh with an edge as I glare back at him. “And now the United Powers will deal with you. You should be the one who’s afraid.”
Damn that felt good.
“Think again,” Wilson snaps. He breaks free from the soldiers and pulls out a knife. I forgot how quick he can be when he wants, because he usually spends so much time on dramatic flare. But this time, he gets right to the point. He leaps toward me.
Without hesitation, I grab the gun on Cole’s hip.
I squeeze the trigger.
Wilson falls within inches of me, a hole in the middle of his forehead. Blood spills into a puddle, soaking up the snow. Soldiers scramble from all over the place, taking the gun from me and pulling Wilson’s body away. The blood leaves tracks through the snow, streaking across the stage and down the steps.
Wilson will forever be the last life I take. I hope.
Cole’s arms surround me as I collapse into him. I have nothing left. Not one drop of energy.
“How’d you know?” he asks in a rush.
“Know what?” I whisper.
“That I had any ammo left.”
“I didn’t,” I slur. His chuckle quickly turns to shouting.
“We need help over here!”
“Her dehydration’s almost resolved, and I’m confident she’ll be able to keep her toes,” a male voice says. “Once she’s awake and regains her strength, we’ll start physical therapy, which will help her to maintain mobility and flexibility, as well as increase her strength. With broken ribs and severely sprained ankles and left wrist, these steps are extremely important in order to avoid blood clots and pneumonia and to restore her body back to health.”
“Dr. Harrison, I’m concerned about her mental health,” my dad says. “I feel it’s of great importance she talks with someone. Not only has she been through multiple tragic events, she’s already suffering from PTSD, along with visual and auditory hallucinations, I’ve been told.”
“I agree completely. Unfortunately, we don’t offer those services here,” the doctor says. “We do, however, have several affiliates we work with who not only specialize in those areas but will also help her readapt to civilian life. It would benefit her greatly.” He clears his throat. “When the time’s right, we can discuss this with Lexi.”
“Thank you, sir,” my father replies.
“It’s my pleasure. And if you think of any more questions or have any concerns, please let her nurse know and she’ll inform me.” His footsteps fade, and my father sighs.
“Mr. Hamilton,” says a female voice. “You should rest as well, sir.”
“While I appreciate your concern,” Dad says, “I’m staying with my daughter.”
“Stubborn man, typical.” The nurse laughs. “I’ll have your lunch sent here then.”
The repetitive beeping next to my head might as well be fingernails scraping across a chalkboard. I reach out to shut it off, but the realization that it’s not an alarm clock hits me once my hand gets entangled in a bunch of tubing. I groan and try to rip the IV out of my hand, but someone stops me.
“Lexi, leave that alone. It’s only IV fl
uids,” my dad says in a gentle tone. “You’re in the medical center that the United Powers set up for us. You’re safe now. Everyone’s safe.”
I raise my eyebrows, willing my lids to open. Everything’s too bright and too white. It forces me to squint. The ceiling is flawless, cleaner than anything I’ve seen in months. I try to swallow, but it feels like someone shoved rocks down my throat. Taking a breath, I dare to peek at my body. An IV is connected to my hand, the bag drip, drip, dripping. I can almost taste the cool liquid in my mouth. Yet, I don’t feel thirsty. I plunk my head against the pillows and attempt to wiggle my toes.
“Except Sutton,” I croak.
A tray of food sits uneaten by the wall, and my father wipes his eyes with a tissue before blowing his nose. I’m not sure if it’s seeing me awake or the thought of his fallen best friend that’s causing his tears. Either way, seeing him like this makes me want to crawl into his lap and cry with him.
It’s strange seeing him sitting next to my bedside after all this time. “How long did I sleep?”
“Two days,” he says and pats my hand. “And, my word, you’re quite the snorer.”
“I don’t snore.” I chuckle. “Owwww.” Instantly, I wrap my arms around my rib cage.
“Broken ribs,” he says.
“They suck.”
“Very true.” The dark circles under his eyes haven’t faded. I frown. He hasn’t changed his clothes since we were rescued, either.
“Dad, you look like crap. You’re not sleeping, are you?”
“You know your old man when he’s worried about you ... I simply can’t.” He smiles, but it’s not an easy smile. It’s the kind of smile that shows he cares but also masks the amount of grief he feels. But he can’t hide all of it from me. “We have a very important matter to discuss. Do you feel up to it?”
“You mean the fact that I’m infected and my death is inevitable?” I ask. But it’s weird, because I’m not experiencing the pain that Amber and others have had, nor am I coughing. Strangely, I’m alive, with none of those symptoms. Maybe they have me on some kind of super drugs.
“Well, it’s more complicated than that,” he says while twiddling his fingers. He runs his hands through his thinning hair, and I get the feeling there’s something more he hasn’t told me.
“Tell me I was out cold during the puking-my-guts out phase. I’m sick of puking.” I inspect the black brace that’s supporting my left wrist and hand. “I already went crazy and busted my hand, I see.” I lift up the sheet, and both my ankles are in splints. “And my ankles?” I can’t seem to stop blabbering. I glance over at the IV pole, and it dawns on me that they’re probably giving me morphine. “Ohhhhh. I’m already at the end.” Sorrow covers me like a blanket, and I lean back into my pillow and chew my bottom lip.
“Nugget, you’re not even remotely close to dying.” Dad’s so calm, it makes me feel defensive, but I don’t know why.
“Yes, Dad, I am. I’ve seen this a dozen times, and I know exactly what the virus does. I know the symptoms like I know my own name.”
“Good. Because you haven’t gone through any of them.” His words stop me cold.
“Then what’s going on?”
“Just hear me out and listen carefully to my questions.” He leans forward and grabs my hand, the way he used to before he was taken from me. “I want you to think hard, I want you to go back and remember what you went through before the Hole.”
“What? Are you trying to kill me?” I ask. “Dad, that’s the last thing I want to think about right now.”
“Trust me,” he says. “You’re a smart girl, and you’re going to figure this out—the answers you’ve been searching for this entire time.”
“Now I’m scared.” Warmth heats my skin, and I’m flushed with frustration. He’s really going to make me think about all that, even while on morphine.
“Breathe,” he says. “Try your best to remain calm.”
“I am breathing. But calm, not so much.”
He squeezes my hand tight to regain my full attention. “Before you lived with the Commander, how often did you throw up?”
“You’re serious?” I ask.
“Dead serious,” he says. I scrunch up my eyebrows, deep in concentration, trying to think past the blur that’s been my life for the last few months. It seems like forever ago that I wasn’t a Sinner, that I wasn’t branded with Lust. Calling up those memories is harder than normal with the fog of drugs hanging over me.
“All right,” I finally say, “hardly ever.”
“And when you lived with him?”
“Geez, all the time,” I say. That part’s completely clear to me. “But I’m getting better. It’s maybe once a week now, if that.”
“Good,” my dad says. “What do you remember about the torture? What, specifically, scared you the most?”
“Why. Are. You. Doing. This?” I tighten my fists, but the brace and IV limit the motion, which frustrates me all the more. “I’m not comfortable going there right now.”
“Lexi, I know it’s hard, but it’s important.”
“He locked me in a small, dark cement room for days at a time,” I snap, losing patience.
“Why did that scare you?” he pushes, staring straight into my eyes. It’s enough to make my own water.
“Dad, can we please do this another time?” I ask. “Shouldn’t we discuss this in therapy or something?”
“No.” He sits back, eyes wide and earnest. “No, it needs to be discussed right away. Why were you scared?”
I exhale. “I’m claustrophobic, that’s why. I had panic attacks.”
“What else?”
I swallow the lump working its way up my throat. Just thinking about it makes me jittery.
“Spiders.” I’m shaking so much my bed squeaks. I don’t miss how his grip tightens the more I talk, like it’s physically hurting him too. “He locked me in the cement room once, but left the light on … and I wasn’t alone. There was this box just sitting there. All of a sudden, hundreds of spiders were pouring out like a wave in the ocean. I screamed as they crawled all over me. I screamed until I lost my voice. I remember begging God to kill me.” I close my eyes, willing the images to recede. The monitors next to me beep faster, and I have to remind myself that I’m not there anymore. I’m here with my dad, alive. For now. “I guess eventually I passed out.”
“Anything else?” Dad asks.
“A dead cat.”
“You’re afraid of cats?” he asks.
“Yeah, don’t you remember that psycho cat that chased me down the road when I went running that one day? Followed me into our driveway. I yelled for Keegan. He was in the garage working on his car, and he chased it off with a bat?”
“No, I do not.” My father’s lips seal as he tilts his head.
“Huh. Maybe Mom forgot to tell you.”
He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. “So those three things are your greatest fears?”
I nod. “Well, before the Hole. Not now.”
“Okay. Besides throwing up, was there anything else, physically, that changed?”
“Such as?” I prompt.
“Any aches, pains, weird sensations?”
“I don’t think so.” I shake my head slightly. “Oh, wait. There is one thing. Now and then I get this weird sensation in my arms and sometimes my legs. But it’s not exactly painful. It’s more of an achy feeling.”
My father exhales a slow and steady breath. “What a relief. I was worried about that part.”
“What part?” I ask, because I’m so lost right now my head’s on a merry-go-round spinning faster by the second. “Stop being so cryptic, and tell me what that means.” I can’t help being sharp. Maybe it’s the drugs I’m on, or that I don’t understand why he’s being so indirect, but my brain’s not making any connections.
“Lexi, nugget,” my dad says. “When your mom told you she was the one who tortured you, she was telling you the truth.”
/>
“Oh, come on, Dad,” I say. “You were never there when this happened, so how could you know?”
“You forgot one more fear.”
“Nope. Those are it.” I would cross my arms over my chest if I weren’t attached to the IV pole.
“At that time in your life, when the torture was happening, who were you most afraid of?” Dad insists.
“Everyone?”
“Be serious, would you please? I’m trying to help you understand what truly happened to you.”
I shake my head, then take a brief minute to think about his question by going back to that awful time in my life and running through the people who were around me at that time.
My mom? No, she was drugged.
Keegan? No, I was never afraid of my brother. Plus, he left almost as soon as we moved to High Society.
My neighbors? Nope.
My classmates? No, definitely not. They never bothered to even talk to me.
Who else is there?
Come on, Lexi. Think … think … think.
“Oh my God,” I say bitterly.
My mouth goes dry, my eyes widen, and I gasp. I curl my toes, and I bite down on my tongue. Dad stares at me, and he knows I’ve figured it out.
“Go ahead, say it.”
“The Commander.” I shake my head in disbelief, trying to understand how I didn’t see the full picture before. This entire time my mom was trying to explain what happened to me, and I shoved her away. I clear my throat. “How did I get sick? How did I get the virus before I was accused? How am I still alive?” My dad sighs and rests his hands on his knees while looking up at the ceiling. “What did she do to me?” My voice raises. “Did she inject me?”
“I believe so, yes,” he replies nervously.
“She wanted me dead?” I spit.
“Of course not,” he says. “She had no other choice, can’t you see?”
“Unbelievable! You’re actually defending her?” I shake my head. “Mom was high as a kite, Dad. Oblivious to everything.” My voice breaks, and I can’t move any farther forward in my bed because of everything restricting my movements.