Flawed

  “You keep quiet,” he says, sweat on his upper lip now.

  “She’s just a child,” a woman calls out. “For the love of God, would you all leave her alone.”

  Her desperate cry introduces a whole new wave of emotion.

  “And you”—he looks at me menacingly—“need to keep your mouth shut. Understand?”

  I take a deep breath. I’m not finished. It would be logical to at least finish what I was saying before the inevitable happens. Granddad will know something has happened if I’m not back outside in three minutes. He will know to start the engine and get out of here. Whatever he did in the past will give him that gut instinct.

  “Professionalism,” I say, finally, gently, just to the police officer. “Providing a professional policing service to all communities.”

  He looks over my shoulder, and I twist my body around to see what he’s looking at, but there’s nothing behind me. By the time I realize he was trying to trick me, he brings the baton down and hits me across the back of my legs. I crumple and go down. The antiseptic bottle smashes as it hits the ground.

  It’s almost as if there is a second when everybody takes a moment to make a decision, to pick a side, to figure out who it is one really is. And then the riot begins.

  SIXTY-THREE

  THE FEET I see standing around us, once observers, are now in on the act. They suddenly take flight, and they are everywhere. Some are on me, trampling me, some are doing their best to block for me, but every time I try to get up, I am swiftly brought back down to earth again. With a bang, with a knock, winded, I lie on the ground, hands covering my head, waiting for the black spots in my vision to clear. I feel hands trying to pull me up, hands trying to push me down. I can barely breathe. Then I hear the whistles. The Whistleblowers have arrived, and I see black leather boots descending on the scene. Some people run away, more people hear about what’s happening and join in. I see fists flying, blood spraying. I don’t even know who is on whose side anymore. At one point, when I manage to see straight, I think I see Enya Sleepwell standing at the door of the supermarket, watching. But I have been knocked on the head too many times, and I know I’m seeing things. I give up trying to fight, trying to stand, and, instead, I lie down as I feel another blow to my head as a boot steps backward, not knowing I’m there, and I feel the leather on my cheek. Then it’s all a blur.

  I hear noises and then I hear nothing. A buzzing in my ear seems to block out most of the sound. I’m on the ground, and then I’m floating, and I wonder if I’m dead, if this is what it’s like to rise toward the light. But the light is only the strip lighting of the supermarket, and I realize I’m alive, but I’m flying. Then I feel hands around my body, large, comforting, safe. Those hands place my arms around his neck. I feel flesh. My head rests on a chest. I feel flesh on my cheek. I focus on the chest and see an F, just like mine, below the clavicle, where a T-shirt has been ripped in the fight. A Flawed man is carrying me. He smells good, of clean sweat and something else I can’t place, but I feel safe. He carries me like I’m a baby, and I cling to him, turning my head to his chest, my head resting beneath his chin to block out the light that hurts my eyes. As we move, I run my fingertip over the F on his chest, which makes us stop moving. I have never felt anybody else’s scar. It feels like mine. Five of mine, but not like the final one on my spine. The one that was done without any anesthetic, which made me jump and the sear moved, smudged. I see his large Adam’s apple move as he gulps at my touch. I allow my finger to rest there on his chest. Even though he’s a stranger, the feel of the brand is comforting, like my own skin.

  I know immediately who this is. I move my head away from his chest and look upward and see that he’s looking down at me.

  Carrick.

  With his intense eyes, worried and concerned as I smile at him. Carrick, who I only ever really saw through glass. There’s no glass now. Despite the madness around us, he returns my smile.

  “I told you I’d find you.”

  And we float away, away from the light, away from the sound.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  I WAKE UP with a groan, feeling raw from head to toe. I’m in my bed, in my house. It is dark apart from the light from the landing shining through the gap in the door. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, but soon I can make everything out. There is no one in the chair beside my bed. I am still wearing the clothes I was wearing earlier. It is night outside, which means only a few hours have passed since I remember being awake. The events in the supermarket come back to me in a rush, and I think of Granddad, of his waiting outside for me and of his bleeding wound. I need to get my phone to call him, to make sure he escaped safely, but voices downstairs stop that thought.

  The voices are low and urgent. Then I hear Mom’s voice, quick and pleading, higher and faster than usual, and it is quickly talked over by someone else. I recognize the voice, but it can’t be. Crevan, downstairs! I must be dreaming. He wouldn’t be here, in this house. I try to sit up but groan again. My stomach is sore; my ribs must be broken, at least one of them. My hand goes to my stomach and I feel a bandage wrapped around me. I swing my legs out of bed. I’m dizzy. I wait with closed eyes for the floor to stop spinning, for the nausea to pass.

  I see water beside my bed and gulp it down. I manage to stand, feeling an ache everywhere, in every muscle. I don’t remember getting home, though I remember the floating sensation in the supermarket, being held by Carrick, feeling so comfortable and safe in his arms. His smiling at me, my resting my head against his chest and closing my eyes. After that, my memory is gone, and I wonder, did I imagine him? Was he real?

  My door opens, and Juniper steps inside. There is panic on her face, and I know something is very wrong. “Celestine, you’re awake.”

  “What’s wrong?” I think of Granddad being left behind and prepare for the worst.

  Her breathing is fast. “Crevan is here. Downstairs. He’s threatening Mom and Dad. He says Dad will lose his job and they will be imprisoned if they don’t hand you over right now.”

  My mouth falls open.

  “He’s going to call the Whistleblowers to take you away if they don’t bring you downstairs themselves, but I don’t believe him. He would have called them by now himself. He’s up to something. I think he just wants to take you somewhere himself. What does he want to do with you, Celestine? Do you know? Is it about Art? He asked them where the video is. They don’t know what he’s talking about. Do you? He says you have it and he needs it.”

  I look at her, feeling dizzy, confused. He knows about Mr. Berry’s video. How? He thinks I have it. I need to speak with Pia. She’s the only person who knew about it other than Mr. Berry and Carrick. She was the one searching for it. Suddenly I’m worried for her. I haven’t heard from her in days. Then I remember my phone call with Mr. Berry’s husband. Crevan must have been listening in. My phone was bugged.

  “Mom and Dad are trying to talk him out of taking you. He says you were at a Flawed rally this evening. And then caused a riot at the supermarket. Two people died. The police fired tear gas. It’s all over the news. There are riots on the streets. The media are blaming you. Somebody filmed it, but Celestine, my God, Celestine.” Her eyes fill up, and she starts crying. “I watched it, and I am so proud of you. I could never have said what you said, could never have done what you’ve done. The court, the chamber, the supermarket … I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you’re amazing, and I’m so proud of you. He says he’ll drop the charges if you give him the video.”

  I shake my head, confused by all this, still dizzy, head pounding.

  Juniper tries to compose herself, realizing now is not a time for her emotions, the urgency back. “I’ve packed you a bag. Crevan is in the library with Mom and Dad. You can slip out the back door. The man who carried you home left this for you.” She pushes a note into my hand. “Don’t lose it, Celestine. He wanted to help you. He knows people who can help you. Find him, okay? Promise me you’ll find him.
Then I know you’ll be okay.” She runs her hand over my face and cries again. “My brave little sister, I’ve missed you. I will miss you.”

  My mind is racing with all that she has said. I have to go away? I have to leave my family to protect them. Crevan knows about the video of the sixth branding in the chamber. He thinks that I have it—he knows that I have it—only I have no idea where it is, but he will never believe that. He will not give up until he finds it, and I must move to safety until I can figure out my next move.

  “The curfew,” I say.

  “Mary May has been already. It’s after eleven. If Mom and Dad can keep Crevan at bay, you have until morning before anyone realizes. Celestine, I love you.” Juniper is crying. “I’m so sorry for how everything has turned out between us.”

  I make a move to walk away. I can’t hear this now.

  She reaches out and holds my arm tight. “Please listen to me. I need to explain. I need you to know what’s been going on.”

  I slowly turn around, ready to hear the worst, prepared to hear about her and Art. My worse fears realized.

  “Nothing happened with Art,” she says, tears rolling down her face. “He contacted me for help. He needed someone to help him hide out in the sheds, bring him food. He didn’t want you knowing because he didn’t want you to get into any trouble. He knew his dad would hurt you to find out where he was, and he knew you were being watched. He made me promise not to tell you, but some days, I swear, Celestine, I was so close to telling you. I should have. He was locked up most days, hiding in the Tinders’ shed, and so at night we met to talk about you. About how we both felt we’d let you down. Neither of us could live with it. He was the only person who could understand how I felt. That’s all it was, honestly. I was trying to help him, keep him safe for you.” She sniffs. “I’m so sorry.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief that there was nothing more between them, that they were genuinely trying to protect me, even if it still feels like a betrayal. We hug tightly, as if we never will again.

  “I’ve always been so jealous of you, always,” she continues. “You were always so perfect. You always did everything right, said everything right. Everybody liked you. I was jealous of your perfection. And now I’m jealous that you’re Flawed. It should have been me who did what you did on the bus. I wanted to. I thought about it all the time. But even when it came to it, I wasn’t brave enough, another thing I couldn’t do. I’m so sorry.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for what happened on the bus,” I say, and I mean it. “It was all my own doing. None of this is your fault. I never asked for either of you to save me. You couldn’t have. The three of us would be in the same situation that I’m in right now. You didn’t do anything wrong.” I don’t want to dwell on the Art issue now. I need time to find the right words.

  “No,” she interrupts me, firmly. “I chickened out. I relive it every second of every day. I should have backed you up on the bus.” She wipes her cheeks, an air of bravery in it, the little soldier. “But now I’m doing the right thing. The brave thing. You have to go, Celestine, or else Crevan will take you away, and I don’t know where that will be.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, squeezing her hands in mine. “The man who brought me here. Do you know his name?”

  “Carrick Vane.”

  I smile. I didn’t imagine him, I didn’t dream him.

  “Does he mean something to you?”

  I nod and remember the feel of his seared chest beneath my finger as he carried me away from danger, see his Adam’s apple at the tip of my nose.

  “Will you find him?”

  “Yes,” I say, full of confidence now, not able to think about the fact that I am leaving my family, going into the unknown alone. I think of how Professor Lambert quoted Pólya, “If you can’t solve a problem, then there is an easier problem you can solve: Find it.” I can’t take down Crevan all by myself, not now, but I will have to find Carrick Vane. It is all I have now.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  I TIPTOE DOWN the stairs as quietly as I can, knowing one false move will be the end of me. Once downstairs, I hear the raised voices of my dad and Crevan, Dad going at him full throttle. I want to burst in there and stop Dad, afraid that he’ll be next in the firing line for protecting me, but I know I can’t. It won’t help anything in the long term. My only way to end this is to reveal Crevan to the world.

  “Go,” Juniper whispers loudly, and I feel her pushing me.

  I stare at the door to the library, unable to leave Mom and Dad in this situation, feeling frozen on the spot. If I leave, they could be punished, accused of aiding me. If I give in and stay, they will be safe. The door suddenly opens and Juniper grabs my hand. Both of us freeze. It’s all over.

  Instead of Crevan, Mom steps outside, face pale but angry. She has a new undercut hairstyle, one side of her hair has been shaved close to her head, the other side still a reminder of her long, beautiful waves. She looks like a warrior. She sees me with the packed bag, ready to leave, and she closes the library door firmly behind her. I know she won’t let me leave and I will have to try to convince her. She rushes to me, throws her arms around me, and covers me in kisses. She whispers one word close to my ear that leaves no question in my mind and goose bumps on my skin.

  “Run.”

  With tears almost blinding me, I leave her side, feeling torn from her, ripped at the seams. I clamber over our backyard wall. I stay low and run to reach the lane, which will lead me up the hill to the summit hidden from view.

  A car appears from around the corner, lights on full, and heads toward me. It stops me in my path. I’m not sure whether it’s going to stop; and with its headlights on, I can’t see who’s driving. But I fear whoever it could be intends on running me over. I don’t recognize the car, though it is brand-new, expensive. It stops inches from me. The headlights are still so bright I can’t see who’s behind the wheel. I think about turning around and running, but I know Crevan is in the other direction. I am so close to the lane that will hopefully take me to freedom, the lane I used to take to see Art on the summit, when life was simpler.

  The driver’s door opens, and Judge Sanchez gets out. My heart races.

  “Nice evening for an escape, Ms. North,” she says, coolly.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want what you want,” she says. “We have something in common.”

  “I doubt that,” I say, bitterly.

  “To bring Crevan down.”

  I’m shocked by that admittance, but, of course, I shouldn’t be. She was trying throughout my entire case to undermine him. She was just using me to do it.

  “I hear you know something about him that could be beneficial to both of us. Something that’s making him awfully nervous, sending out groups of Whistleblowers here, there, and everywhere. I don’t know what it is, but I’m hoping you can tell me.”

  “What makes you think I can trust you?” I’m panicking. I need to get away from this. I need to escape. My family can’t hold Crevan back from searching the house for me for much longer, and if it’s true that I’m being held responsible for both the rally and the riot in the supermarket, then the Whistleblowers and the police will be here to take me away. I hope the police find me first, but Crevan won’t let me get away from him that easily.

  “You can trust me. I’m going to let you go,” she says, and I am totally confused. “You’re not much use to me in Crevan’s control. I can see the damage you can do when you’re free. You’ve really shaken him up, and he’s making more mistakes than usual. Do you know what it is you have over him?” she asks, curiously. I can tell that it’s killing her, not knowing what it is that I know.

  I swallow hard, thinking about it, and then finally nod.

  She smiles, a small, sly smile. “Who’d have thought it would be you.” She looks me up and down. “You know, I believe in the Guild, a public inquiry, inquiring into matters of urgent public importance, but I don’t believe in how it’s being used now,
” she says, eyes hard and focused on mine. “I was trying to help you in the court case, Celestine. You should have taken the prison sentence. Did you like the little show I arranged for you to hear at the castle? I thought witnessing a branding would scare you out of going through with it, that you’d just admit to aiding a Flawed.”

  It was she who arranged for Tina to have a meeting so that Funar could force me and Carrick to sit outside the Branding Chamber.

  “If you help me, I can do something about that band around your arm.” She roots in her pocket with black leather gloves and produces a card. “I’ll let you run away, Celestine, but contact me when you’re ready, and we can help each other.”

  It’s almost too good to be true, but I slowly reach for the card, take it hesitantly, and inch away from her, waiting for someone to jump out from hiding and grab me, but nobody does. I keep moving, quickening my pace. She watches me and then gets back into her car. She starts up the engine and reverses.

  I follow my mother’s advice.

  I run.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  FOR THE PAST twelve years, I’ve been writing one novel every year, which is a difficult-enough pace to keep up with. But in the summer of 2014, when I had finished editing The Year I Met You and should have been recharging my brain for my next novel, The Marble Collector, the premise for Flawed arrived in my mind and wouldn’t go away. Celestine North arrived in my life and wouldn’t go away. I have never experienced such a rush of adrenaline, have never written with my heart so much in my throat, with such a trembling hand, and have never written a novel so quickly. I had to get this story out of me, whether people wanted to read it or not. Six weeks later, Flawed was finished. For that, I thank David, Robin, and Sonny for your love and patience while I wrote, and my mom, dad, sister, and brother-in-law for your encouragement in my writing about this subject matter. Thank you, Marianne Gunn O’Connor and Vicki Satlow for your guidance and encouragement and for believing this isn’t just a story for myself, but one that could be shared.