And that’s how the firemen found us. Their axes were drawn and their radios blared, but they just stood there, frozen in time and space, mouths hanging open like unhinged doors while the redheaded girl clawed at her eyes and screamed that she’d gone blind.
They took us to the emergency room. All of us. Cellie and I were put in different rooms, and one by one we were questioned. Everyone asked why. First the doctor and then the ER social worker. But I didn’t have an answer, so they drew a curtain around me. Isolated and alone, I missed Cellie. I didn’t feel whole without her. I sat cross-legged in the bed as words filtered through the thin fabric. Words that sounded eerily familiar.
Split.
Apart.
Sick.
And then I remembered Cellie’s siren cry when she thought they would separate us and my fevered promise, Wherever you go, I’ll go too. I knew then what I had to do. I jumped down from the bed and tossed the curtain aside. With more fear than conviction, I confessed what I knew to be a lie. After all, blood was blood.
“I set the fire,” I said.
CHAPTER
5
Ward D
ALL THE LIGHTS ARE ON IN CHASE’S ROOM WHEN I WALK IN. He lies on his bed with his hat tipped low, and big headphones rest around his neck. The volume is loud enough for me to hear the lyrics “Fuck the Police,” by N.W.A. Someone snores loudly in the other bed, a huge Asian kid who I recognize from the cafeteria.
Chase spots me and I pause in the doorway. He sits up and removes the headphones. “I didn’t think you were going to show.”
I don’t say anything, just keep my gaze fixed on his snoring roommate.
“You don’t have to worry about Mao Ying.” He waves a hand at the sleeping giant. “I gave him something.”
“You drugged him?” What would Dr. Goodman say? Drugging someone definitely violates our group’s code of conduct.
“Relax.” He brushes my worry under a hypothetical rug. “I just gave him an extra dose, and it takes way more than that to kill someone. Trust me, I know.”
I don’t question his certainty or the comment about how he knows. The less I know about Chase, the better.
Chase stands in front of me and takes in my thin, light blue sweatshirt, the ratty scrubs, and my laceless Chuck Taylors. He looks at me as if I have secrets tattooed beneath my clothes. Secrets he wants to know. “I thought I told you to wear something dark.”
A smart-ass comment hovers on my lips, but then I remember how quickly Chase had softened earlier in the cafeteria when I’d whispered, No Quiet Room. I liked that. “These are my only clothes.” The truth. It works. He gives me an understanding nod as he turns from me.
He rummages through a dresser and pulls out a black hooded sweatshirt. “Here.” He throws it in my direction. “Put that on. It’ll be big, but at least it won’t look like you’re wearing a white flag of surrender when we run across the lawn.” I put the sweatshirt on over my own, and it comes almost to my knees. “You got my key?” he asks. I’m still holding the piece of plastic in my sweaty palm. I hand it over.
“Where’d you get that, anyway?” I ask.
“Ah, Sparky,” he says in a condescending tone. “We don’t always need to know how the sausage gets made.”
He’s such a fucking weirdo. Chase goes to the door and swipes the key over the black box. He opens it wide and waits for me to exit. “Ladies first.”
Both the boys’ and girls’ hallways end in emergency exits. These are the fastest ways out of the C ward. “C’mon,” Chase says, and leads me to the door with big red letters above it. “Keep a lookout.”
I face the hallway, steadfast and vigilant, watching for techs. I don’t point out to him that my job is pretty much moot. If a tech comes down the hall, we’re screwed. Chase drags a stool over. He stands up on it and reaches the emergency exit sign. He takes out a pair of kid-friendly scissors (probably stolen from the rec room) and quickly cuts a wire. The sign blinks once and then goes off.
Taking my arm, Chase ushers me through the door and we race down the stairs. It’s strange—the night I escaped from Savage Isle, Jason and I took the same route. This time there’s no alarm screaming behind me, only the heavy sound of our breath, the dull thuds and soft echo of our feet on the cement stairs. We get to the bottom, where there’s another door, this one with a black box resting beside it. Chase swipes the key over it. The unlocking mechanism is loud, like the clanking of steel bars opening a prison gate.
And just like that we’re outside, thrust into the chilly night air. The door slams behind us. A heavy rain falls, punishing the grass. A green awning protects us from the downpour. I want to spread my arms and twirl. Fresh air has never smelled so sweet.
Chase motions me forward, his hat tipped low. “There’s a way in under the fence over to the right.” I stare across the expanse of lawn, transfixed by the dark brick building that rises from the ground. It’s the oldest building on Savage Isle. The other wards were built in the 1970s. But the D ward was built in the fifties. I can’t imagine how many ghosts reside there. Ward D is encased in shadow. A chainlink fence topped with barbed wire wraps around the exterior. “They have bed checks every hour on the hour.” He glances at his watch. “So we have just under twenty minutes,” he shouts over the pounding rain.
Will that be enough time? I don’t know. How long does it take to squeeze the life out of someone? I step off the square of concrete and out from under the awning. The rain hits my body like little pellets of ice, and the wet grass feels squishy beneath my sneakers. My sweatshirt is drenched in seconds. Chase is a few feet ahead of me, and he’s hard to see through the rain. Keeping my chin tucked down and an arm over my face, I run to catch up to him.
When we are halfway across the lawn, a flash of lightning streaks across our path. Static crackles and the smell of burnt ozone fills the air. Explosions of light cloud my vision, momentarily robbing me of sight. When the world dims and comes back together, all I can see is the outline of a familiar body. There are the strong shoulders I used to cry on. There is the rough cheek I used to kiss. There is the curly brown hair I used to run my fingers through. And there are the green eyes that will always haunt my dreams. Jason.
Jason stands in front of me.
I resist the urge to run into his arms. I’m afraid he’ll just evaporate like water on summer concrete. So I stay still, a part of my heart slipping out of my chest and into the mirage. Another flash of lightning splits the night and Jason implodes, bright orange flames engulfing his entire frame. His eyes go wide and he looks at the back of his burning hand, amazed. The burns on my hand and shoulders reignite with pain.
Shit, baby. I’m burning up. A tremor runs through my body, down my spine, and into the soaking-wet canvas of my shoes. Allie, Jason says. He takes a step toward me, and I take one back, my foot sinking into the mud. My shoe is stuck, suctioned to the ground. Frantically I try to pull it free, but it won’t budge. Allie, he says, closer, so close I can feel the heat on my face and taste the smell of his burning flesh. I shut my eyes, put my hands to my ears, and shake my head. Go away. Go away. You’re not real. You’re not real. I shake back and forth until I realize I’m not doing it on my own. Someone’s rough hands are gripping me tight. I open my eyes, dazed. All signs of Jason have vanished. I look at the ground, expecting to see scorched grass, but there’s nothing there. Only the soft, rain-beaten earth and Chase. Chase is standing in front of me, looking confused. He’s speaking to me, but whatever he’s saying is lost, drowned out by the roar of a phantom fire.
I focus on his mouth. Focus on reading his lips as they form a single word over and over again. My name. He’s saying my name. “Alice!”
“I’m here,” I say, soft and far away.
He scans my face, searching for signs that I’m coming undone. The rain is really coming down now. I’m soaked and so is he. Water pours down his face, making his eyelashes heavy and spiky. “Where’d you go?” he asks. His grip on my shoulders loose
ns. His touch becomes light but firm. The warmth of his hands burns through my two sweatshirts and brands my skin. His breathing is heavy, and little clouds form in the frigid air. “It’s colder than shit out here,” he says. “Look, maybe this wasn’t a good idea. You’re soaking and so am I. Maybe it’s not the right time.”
What is he saying? He wants to give up. “No.” I shake my head, and strands of soggy hair whip into my face. “No.” It has to be tonight. My resolve is weakening. It has to be tonight.
He stares at me, and it feels as if he’s searching for something he’ll never be able to see on the outside. “All right. But try to keep up, okay?”
“Okay. I won’t lose you,” I say, but Chase grabs on to my hand anyway.
He leads us around the chainlink fence to a spot where part of it is warped and ripped from the ground. There’s just enough space for someone to crouch under and come out on the other side.
“You go first,” he says, gripping the metal in one hand and pulling it up to create a wider space.
I crawl under and Chase follows. To the left there’s a concrete path that ends in a metal door with a black box next to it. A sign reads EMPLOYEE ENTRANCE. Chase passes the keycard over the black box, and a light flickers green for a second and then changes to red. A low buzz sounds. He tries it again, and the same thing happens. I shiver. In the shadows, the rain suddenly seems so much colder.
“Shit,” Chase says. “This tech must not have D-level clearance. We’ll have to wait and come back another time. I’ll get us a nurse’s card or better yet a doctor’s. I’m sure they have clearance.”
The words don’t register. “What?” I say through numb lips.
“The key.” He holds it up in front of my face and enunciates every word. “It’s not going to work.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s not going to happen, Sparky.”
“Not going to happen?”
“Yeah. Like I said, I’ll get another card. It’s no big deal.”
“No,” I say.
“What?”
“No. I have to get in there!”
“The key doesn’t work. We’re not getting in there, not tonight,” he insists.
“No!” This time I say it more forcefully, my hands balled into fists at my sides.
“Look, we have to go. We’re almost out of time, anyway.” He closes his hand around my arm and moves, yanking me forward.
I jerk my arm from his hold and at the same time grab the plastic keycard from his hand, turn, and run it back over the black box. I do it again and again and again. The light goes green, then red, green, then red, green then red. I drop the key and start pounding my fist against the box. Pain explodes in my hand, but I keep going until it recedes into a dull ache that travels up my arm and into my shoulder.
“Jesus Christ. You’re going to hurt yourself,” he says. Thunder rumbles, closer now, and a few seconds later lightning cracks. “We have to go back. The storm is getting worse.” I grip the black box, trying to rip it from the wall. He shakes his head at me, his expression part stunned disbelief, part fury. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”
Before I know it, Chase’s arms are around me, dragging me back the way we came. We get to the fence, and he pushes me into and under it until I’m forced to the other side. I stumble on the ground.
“Please,” I cry. A tremor runs through me, stronger than the rumbling thunder in the distance. “I’ve come so close.” I stand, digging my fingers into the chainlink fence. It sways back and forth with the rocking of my body. Cellie is slipping through my fingers. I look up at the building. The brick façade of the D ward is illuminated for one split second. And that’s when I see her—a ghost-white face, sunken, hollow eyes, and dark hair. Cellie. She’s standing in a window at the top floor. I know she can see me clinging to the fence, crying out for her. For a moment everything goes silent—the ricochet of bullet-like rain, the roar of thunder, the sound of Chase yelling behind me—all is quiet. Cellie presses a pale hand to the window just as Chase wraps an arm around my waist and pulls, wrenching me away from my anchor. I have no choice but to let go or my fingers will be torn from my hands.
“Please.” I fight with all my might. Chase loses his footing, slips on the grass, and we fall into the mud. My fingers dig into the soft ground. My cheek rests on the soggy turf, and suddenly I am drained. The fight in me is gone.
Chase kneels beside me, and sympathy pours off of him. “Hey now,” he says, brushing a lock of hair away from my face. “We’ll try again.”
But he doesn’t get it. Cellie has seen me; she knows what I’m planning. I had to strike first. She’ll come for me now. I know it. It’s only a matter of time. Now she knows I’m close, just a few hundred feet away. And she’s a master at escaping. Years of foster homes with locked doors, juvenile detention centers, and psychiatric wards couldn’t hold Cellie. It’s foolish to think that hourly bed checks and a chainlink fence will hold her. I mumble something that sounds like okay or fine, but it comes out more like a whimper. Chase helps me stand, and we walk back toward C ward. He holds my hand the entire way, and this time, instead of pulling me behind him, yanking me along in a firm grip, he’s leading me, leading me with a warm and gentle hand, away from the thunder and lightning and Cellie.
“This way,” he says, taking us to the opposite side of the hospital. “I’ll make sure you get to your room.”
I hold my breath when he swipes the keycard over a black box leading into the building, but the door unlocks. Before I know it we’re back inside, walking up the miles of steps to the top floor. It’s darker in this stairwell than in the other one. A single light illuminates each flight of steps. We hold hands the entire way. He lets go only to fish the key out of his pocket and swipe it over the black box next to the door at the top of the stairs. The door opens, and we’re in the girls’ section of the hospital. “What room is yours?” he asks. I point to the door and he slowly guides me to it, as if we have all the time in the world.
When we get to my door, I stop and turn to him. We’re still holding hands as we face each other, and something unravels inside me, a tiny flicker of warmth at the very bottom of my stomach that extinguishes the cold fear. Safe. Chase makes me feel safe.
“Are you going to be all right?” he asks in a low voice.
I’m not sure. But I don’t want to say it and see concern shadow his face. “Thank you,” is all I say.
“For what?” he asks.
“For your help.” I swallow.
He releases my hand, steps back, and drops his head so I can’t see his face anymore. “Don’t mention it.” He swipes the keycard over the black box and the door unlocks. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I nod, trying to read his face, but he dodges eye contact. I hold the door open as he starts to walk away.
“Hey, Chase?” I whisper when he’s just a few feet from me. “Don’t call me Sparky anymore, okay?”
He sucks in an uneasy breath. “What do you want me to call you, then?”
“Alice,” I say. “Just Alice.”
He gives a quick, almost imperceptible nod. “Okay, Just Alice.”
Back in the sheltered darkness of my room, I allow myself a few deep breaths, a few unwatched minutes to sort through my feelings. The smell of damp earth and fabric softener drifts up, and I realize I’m still wearing Chase’s sweatshirt. Tugging down a sleeve so it covers my hand, I bring it up and place it against my nose. I decide I want to keep his sweatshirt. I slip off my shoes, go to my dresser, and stuff it in the top drawer. I make my way to my bed and kneel beside it, reaching one hand under the mattress. I feel around until my fist closes around one of the tiny white tablets. I pop it in my mouth and swallow it dry. It’s bitter and I almost choke, but in the end it goes down the rabbit hole. I curl up in my bed and count the raindrops that hit the window. The silhouettes of the swaying black treetops outside tease me. Somewhere in those trees is the charred ruin of a barn.
> …
FROM THE JOURNAL OF ALICE MONROE
After Cellie set the doll on fire and glued the girl’s eyes shut, our names were marked with an asterisk. A tiny star that said without words or writing that there was a darkness inside us, as dense and thick as any bone, yet harder to break. Soon we became lost puzzle pieces swept under a rug. We got used to the feel of cheap sheets and the plastic trash bags we hauled our clothes around in.
By that time Shawna had moved on. So Rebecca stepped in. She wore her hair slicked back in a tight bun that showed off the big gold hoop earrings she seemed to never take off. I remember watching those earrings glinting in the sunlight as we drove in the car. The way the light reflected off them made something in my chest balloon. Hope. She took us downtown and placed us in a group therapy home, where all the kids slept in tidy rows of metal beds and the fridge was padlocked at night. Our days were rigidly structured, and Cellie told me to make a game of it. We played as if we were invincible soldiers. Prisoners of war, just like Grandpa. At night, from our steel beds with thin mattresses, we’d whisper to each other and wonder if we’d ever have a family again. We dreamed of escape.
At age nine we graduated from the group home. Rebecca was proud of our improvement and took us out for ice-cream sundaes. Over maraschino cherries and sprinkles drowning in melted chocolate sauce, she announced that we would be shuffled again to a big foster family, ten kids in all.
She took us through neighborhoods we knew from before. We drove past the transition home where Cellie set the girl’s doll on fire and glued the girl’s eyes shut, and then we turned down a street and stopped in front of a house with a sad-looking tire swing hanging from a gnarled tree.
Our new foster parents, Roman and Susan, met us at the door, their arms open, inviting us in from the cold. Rebecca squeezed our shoulders (a distant type of affection that kept her from ever getting too close) and said she would return the following week to check in.