Deviation (19 page)

“Linc would understand my sacrifice.”

Titus stills, his eyelids twitching as his gaze sharpens. I can practically see his thoughts whirring. “What sacrifice?”

“I would rather die than let you hurt any of them. If you already have, there’s nothing keeping me here.” I shrug. “There are a thousand ways I can do it. Next time I run the track, I won’t turn the corner near the edge of the building. It’s as simple as that.”

There is a millisecond’s worth of silence and then Titus barks, “Come on.” He whirls and heads back down the hall, rapidly punching buttons into his phone as he walks.

I hurry to keep pace, my body humming with the nervous energy of even a victory this small. Titus stops in front of a door we haven’t yet visited and swipes his card. It beeps to allow entry and we file through.

It’s another hallway, this one long and narrow and lined with large windows. All of them are dark or covered by heavy curtains. A few have a strange tint to the glass and I wonder if they are one-way windows, like the ones Titus uses to observe his cells at home. What’s kept back here that would need anonymous viewing?

Halfway down, goose bumps break out over my arms and back and I falter. The heavy curtains covering the window beside me are drab and thick, completely obscuring whatever’s on the other side. As I stare at it, a shell of a thought lodges at the edges of my awareness. Not whole or even capable of leaving behind an explanation before it vanishes completely.

I blink and wait. When it doesn’t return, I resume my walk.

At end of the hall, I follow Titus inside a darkened room. The air is stale, as if this space isn’t used often. A light is switched on, revealing a bank of monitors like the ones I saw in the security booth earlier. I scan them, excited to see movement, faces. Signs of life downstairs. I quickly recognize the rooms displayed and calculate the schedule based on the clock above the monitors.

My attention is drawn to a view of the gym.

A burly woman with a frizzy bun stands with arms crossed at the door. Her form takes up the entire frame. I recognize her as the sour-faced guard with quick eyes and excellent hearing. She was always fussing at us to keep quiet and move on when Ida would dawdle. I move on, scanning for a better view.

On the next monitor, it is the same area from a different angle. Tennis matches are being played, the pop of the ball silent as opponents volley it back and forth over the fraying nets. I search the faces intently for someone familiar.

There. All the way in the back, on the same court we shared my last day, Ida serves. She wears an easy smile as she watches Lonnie lunge and miss the return. My stomach lurches into my throat. I can’t look away or breathe or speak. A sharp pain pricks the very center of my chest.

They are alive. And they are still here, still safe.

Lonnie retrieves the missed ball. She bends down and scoops it up, cupping it in her palm while she jogs back to the serving position. Ida says something I can’t make out on the silent monitor. Lonnie snaps back some retort. Ida rolls her eyes and Lonnie raises the ball to serve.

I take a step closer to the monitor, inspecting Lonnie’s forearm. “What is that?”

“What?” Titus asks. He sounds distracted. I turn back to find him engrossed in whatever he’s typing into his phone.

“That,” I say, pointing to the oversized purple mark on Lonnie’s exposed forearm. “She has a giant bruise.”

“I can’t be held responsible for every time she bumps into a wall,” Titus says.

I don’t respond, because he’s right—but Lonnie’s not accident-prone. Ida maybe, but not Lonnie. And I could’ve sworn there’d been a small incision at the center of the bruise. Whatever caused it had been deliberate. Still, she is alive and seems well. I continue to watch them as they take turns returning the ball over the net or missing it and serving a fresh volley. They are teasing and friendly with each other, but there’s something else. A shadow under their eyes that wasn’t there before I left. Every so often, Ida glances over at something I can’t see.

I wonder if it’s the burly woman standing watch at the door, but I can’t be sure. It’s strange. We’ve never been concerned with our guards. They don’t mess with us except to keep us on schedule, always moving to the next activity. Idle hands are not allowed in the City. So why does Ida seem so worried underneath her cheerful demeanor?

“Can you turn the sound on?” I ask without looking away from the monitor.

“No.”

My shoulders sag. I debate on pressing him on it but a sharp beep interrupts.

“Our time is up,” Titus announces. He frowns at his phone screen before pocketing it and opening the door to signal our departure. Alton and Deitrich exit but I hesitate, wanting to soak in the sight of my two friends as long as I can. I know it’s a very real possibility I will never seem them again. That the memory of them playing tennis will be the last thing I see before I—

“Raven,” Titus snaps.

I jump and he flips the switch, plunging the room into darkness. My shoulders turn rigid as I turn and follow him out.

Alton and Detrich are already halfway down the hall. Titus strides quickly to catch up with them and they fall into hushed conversation with Titus checking his phone every third sentence. Something has happened. I don’t even want to know what. I am numb after the emotional roller coaster of this night. My feet move slow, matching my thoughts, and I taste misery like a clove of garlic in my throat.

Until tonight, I thought death was the end. I imagined myself fading into nothingness as the memory of me is replaced by the newness of the next product in the assembly line. The few I care about—that care about me—would either forget me with the passage of time or worse, die and fade as well. But now, after the gruesome scene Titus has shown me, I know there is a worse fate that awaits. To be reduced to nothing but a singular limb, an organ in a specimen jar, a piece of my physical body on display for science, remembered solely by the color of the inside of my flesh—it’s worse than the miserable imaginings that have haunted me my entire life. I want to vomit. All over Titus and his shiny black Stacy Adams footwear.

And even though I know it will only make it worse, I allow myself to imagine Ida’s delicate hand suspended wrist-deep in a jar of clear fluid on a shelf. Or Lonnie’s hand, fingers curled into a fist, sitting on a frozen tray in a cryogenic chamber. I stop walking. My eyes burn with hot tears and I blink over and over again, willing the images away. I’d give both of my hands to keep each of theirs whole.

At least they have each other, I tell myself. And they are safe—for now. I remember them on the screen, playing tennis, laughing and running and breathing. Even without me, their bond is clearly intact. I am grateful Titus hasn’t separated them and if nothing else, they are safe inside the walls of the City.

I’m not sure I knew the depth of my resolve until this moment, but suddenly conviction surges to the surface with a strength I didn’t know I possess. I will free them. I will see Titus fall.

Through the window I pass on my right, something pokes at the edge of the curtain.

Fear grips me. My first instinct is to run.

I gasp faintly and step back, bracing myself before I remember there is a thick pane of glass separating me from whatever lies on the other side. I glance sideways to see if Titus has noticed but he’s far down the hall and deep in conversation with the other two.

The curtain twitches again.

A quick scan of the rest of the hall reveals only more windows like this one. There are no access doors to what lays beyond the glass. Only window after curtained window on this side of the hall. The other side of the wall, the side at my back, is blank. No windows, not even artwork to break up the stretch of bland beige paint that curves softly left and obscures the exit at the far end.

I look back at the curtain in front of me. It’s fallen still. The darkness beyond is thick, and I can’t see around its edges.

I step closer.

There is no warning before the curtain is abruptly edged aside and the left side of a girl’s face is revealed. Her features are shadowed and contoured through the thick pane. Slender fingers hold the curtain away, the arm disappearing underneath thick locks that spill over her shoulder. Hair so blond it’s almost white.

I blink.

A set of indigo eyes mimic me. Eyes whose color perfectly matches my own. I take in the smooth, pale skin. The stubbornly set chin. The dainty nose with the slight point. The arched brows and heart-shaped hairline.

Adrenaline pumps, slowly at first, then faster and thicker, winding its way from my heart to the tips of my toes and back.

My mouth opens but no sound comes out.

I press against the glass, fingers and palms and nose. The girl on the other side slides more fully into view and does the same. I notice a thin scar along the base of her chin. It’s barely there in the darkness that envelopes her from behind, but it glows iridescent from the light above me.

She wears a white long-sleeved shirt that is fitted to her slender body. It only makes her skin more translucent underneath. I wonder absently if it’s warm in her room. I can’t see a single thing beyond the curtain. I don’t know if she has a bed or a couch or a warm blanket or food.

My gaze is drawn to her mouth. She is moving her lips but I can’t make out a single word. I lean closer, but it does no good. I want to ask her to speak louder but I don’t dare draw attention to myself. I shake my head, letting her know I don’t understand.

Her brows furrow and she pauses in thought. Her eyes light with a new idea and she flips her hair off her shoulder. She points with a slender finger to the side of her neck and arches it sideways to give me a better view.

A tattoo of six numbers and a small leafless tree is imprinted in black ink, a stark contrast to her alabaster flesh.

Morton’s words ring in my ears.
Seven at last count.
Which one is she?

I stare at her, wishing I could transfer my thoughts to her and vice versa. The question burns within me and I have no way of asking. Her lips form the words, “Leave me,” before the rest is lost in translation. My eyes light with an idea. I slide the phone from my pocket, hold it up in front of the girl. I capture her face on camera and slide it away gone. Her mouth is still moving. Silent, unintelligible. Clearly she has a message for me.

I need more time. I don’t know how much longer I have before—

Raven’s eyes widen as they shift to something over my shoulder. She clamps her lips shut and in one fluid movement, she slides away and the curtain falls back into place. By the time I’ve blinked, it’s as if she was never there to begin with. The only real evidence is the slight swing of the curtain’s edge.

A hand clamps down on my shoulder. “What are you doing?” Titus asks.

“I feel sick,” I say. Not a lie. The pounding in my head has returned.

He grunts but doesn’t argue. When I turn, I find him engrossed in his phone again and I breathe in relief. He’s too distracted to notice the swinging curtain or my speeding pulse. His hand slides to the edge of my elbow, guiding me away. I let him lead me down the hall, all the while wanting nothing more than to rush back and fling myself at the glass until it breaks and lets me in or her out.

Why is she here? Why is he hiding her in the City? She doesn’t seem happy to be here. And she didn’t look surprised to see me. Nor did she look … mean. I know that’s silly. You can’t tell by looking at a person. I’m a carbon copy, after all. But after spending so much time and energy hating her for the position she’s put me in, I expected more evidence of evil in her than what I just saw. And the tattoo only confuses me more. Raven is human. That’s what they said.

She must have information Titus doesn’t want shared. Why else would he lock her away? And why else would she have risked herself to pass along to me whatever she’d been trying to say?

What would the world think if I suddenly appeared with another me by my side?