Author: Sophie Jordan

Suddenly, my phone rings again. I stare at it for a moment, waiting for it to stop ringing. I guess Zac isn’t ready to give up on me yet. Hopefully, that won’t ever change.

“You’re going to have to tell him. Better if he hears it from you anyway. He’ll understand.”

I nod and squeeze my pillow tighter like I can crush all my fears and the ugly reality of this day. “I know. Tomorrow.”

Tori

6:45 p.m.

Hey thgt we were studyin 2night u coming over?

8:11 p.m.

Tori

U there??? I’m starting to worry

Tori

10:58 p.m.

What’s wrong??? R U mad at me???

Tori

11:34 p.m.

Pls answer ur phone

THREE

MOM DROPS ME AT THE FRONT DOOR WHILE SHE hunts for a parking space. She’s paranoid I’m going to be late. Like the police will appear if I’m one minute late or something. It’s the “or something,” the not knowing anything anymore, that makes her nervous. The ground hasn’t just shifted beneath our feet; it’s been ripped away entirely.

I feel groggy from lack of sleep. A dull ache throbs at my temples. I still haven’t talked to Zac. I sent him a message saying I was sick and not to pick me up for school. I figured that might also offer some explanation for my ignoring him last night. It’s a reprieve. For now at least.

A receptionist sits at a desk in the lobby of the Wainwright Agency. Very utilitarian. Like most government buildings. Behind her, the first floor stretches into a labyrinth of cubicles. Phones ring. Voices hum in a low drone.

I give her my name and she motions for me to take a seat on a row of chairs lining a wall.

I move numbly and sink into hard plastic. I tuck my hands under my thighs and stare ahead with dry eyes. Even though I ignored Zac’s calls, I listened to his voice mails, letting the sound of his voice bleed into my heart. I’ll have to tell him today, and even though I know he’ll still love me, I can’t help worrying he’ll look at me just a little bit differently. The way Mom does.

There’s an older guy waiting several seats down from me. I slide him a furtive glance, wondering if he’s a carrier, too. Wondering if he’s like me . . . an identified carrier who clearly isn’t dangerous. It hits me then that before yesterday I believed it all. That every carrier was . . . is a danger.

He’s wearing a faded army-green jacket that makes him look faintly military. Or at least like he once might have been in the service. He’s too scruffy-looking to be currently enlisted. He catches me looking, setting cold eyes on me, and then I’m convinced that he’s not like me at all. He’s a true carrier. Alarmed that I’m staring into the eyes of a killer, I quickly look away.

And then my throat closes up, thinking that to the world I’m no different from him. I’m someone that must be monitored. That’s why I’m here.

Mom joins me just before Mr. Pollock appears and motions us to follow him. It looks like he’s wearing the same suit today. Just a different tie. We zigzag through a path created by the labyrinth of cubicles and sink down into the two chairs in front of his desk. I can hear a woman talking on the phone on the other side of the partition. Her voice is monotone as she warns someone that if he doesn’t come in for his next appointment she will issue a warrant for his arrest.

“All right.” Pollock opens up a crisp manila folder and surveys it for a moment. Without any warning, he picks up a narrow black device. A tiny blue light glows at its center as he leans over his desk and swipes it through the air once in front of my face.

“What’s that?”

“Face scanner,” he replies brusquely.

I glance to Mom. Her fingers lightly worry her pearls. He sets down the scanner, makes a mark in my folder, and returns his attention to his monitor, clicking the keyboard a few times.

Finally, he looks at us. “I’ve already alerted your local public school. They’re expecting you tomorrow.”

“Keller High School?” Only fifteen minutes away, it’s closer to the city. I’ve never been there. My world has been Everton since kindergarten.

He looks at me with those small, dark eyes, totally emotionless. “You’re seventeen. You’re required to attend school. You’re lucky. Some states don’t even allow carriers in public school anymore.” The way he says this, the way his head nods, makes me believe he agrees with the policy, that we should be doing it here, too.

He looks at Mom and I can’t help noticing his eyes are a little less icy when he turns his attention on her. He probably feels sorry for her . . . pities her for having a daughter like me. “You’ll have to take her tomorrow, Mrs. Hamilton, to complete all the necessary registration. Keller already has a few HTS carriers, so they have a protocol in place.”

I shift in my chair.

“In the meantime . . .” He hands me a card. “This is your HTS identification. Keep it with you at all times.” Then he hands me a heavy packet. “Familiarize yourself with current HTS regulations.”

I thumb the stapled papers, looking back up at him when he says sharply, “Ignorance of the rules is no excuse. If you commit an infraction, break a law, justice will be swift.”

These words make my chest pull even tighter. “Rules?” I echo.

He lowers his elbows to his desk and steeples his fingertips. “I’ll do you a favor and explain one now. Maybe the most important you can take away from this meeting.” He lifts one finger and holds it ominously before him. “You get one chance. One shot. The first time you hurt someone or behave in a threatening or violent manner, you’re imprinted.” He taps the side of his neck. “One infraction from you, one word from me, and you wear the H. I’m sure you’ve seen it.”

Not up close. Never up close. We live in a good neighborhood. I go—went—to a good school. Only hung out at good places. If there were carriers around, they weren’t the imprinted kind. I only saw that kind on TV. Usually cuffed and being led out of a courtroom. Or walking the streets of some crime-ridden area. They were to be feared.

“Of course, if your infraction gets you arrested, then you’re imprinted and in jail.” Pollock leans back in his chair. “You’re out of my authority at that point.”

I nod. “That won’t happen,” I say.

He smirks. “You all say that.”

My lungs swell at the unfairness of it all. I’ve never even been in a fight. Not even in elementary school. It’s ridiculous to imagine me committing one of these infractions he describes. I want to scream: Look at me! I’m not bad! I’m not a monster!

Pollock returns his attention to the monitor and taps the keyboard a few more times.

The fiery indignation fades away and numbness slides into place, envelops me like a blanket. I wrap myself in it to keep from shattering. He rattles off more information. Protocol. He drops that word a lot. He offers more papers. Mom takes them. I can’t move. Can’t speak.

I watch Pollock’s mouth move, but the words are a jumble in my ears. I tune him out and sink inside myself, listening to the music weaving in my head.

Pollock stands and I realize the meeting is over. Mom rises, too. She looks down at me with wide eyes that just don’t seem to blink anymore.

I move sluggishly to my feet, arms crossed, hugging myself. Suddenly, I’m cold. So cold. Inside and out, I’m chilled to the bone.

“I’ll see you next month. Hopefully, not before.” Pollock snaps my file shut and slides it aside on his desk. My fingers itch to snatch it and read for myself the words that say I’m this terrible thing that must be watched and monitored like a bomb waiting to blow. Like there will be something there I can point at and say, Aha! That’s not true. I can prove it. I’ll show you.

I nod, not knowing what to do or say. I turn to follow Mom from the cubicle but pause as someone else steps inside the small space. Saunters really.

My gaze moves over him unevenly, jerking along the long body. The legs, waist, chest. He’s more muscular than Zac. And taller. Fighter’s build floats through my head.

I glance up at his face, survey the strong lines. Even if his face isn’t the perfection you see in the movies or on magazine covers, there’s no doubt that he’s hot. His brows are thick over deeply set eyes. The nose looks like it’s been broken. His hair is too long, almost to his shoulders, and I suspect he himself might have hacked the dark blond strands framing his face shorter.

He’s got that confidence that always attracts females. Features carved from stone, but a body relaxed and at ease. Suddenly, I remember a line from Julius Caesar. As my gaze crawls over him, the words come back: . . . a lean and hungry look . . . such men are dangerous.

Without being told, I know he’s a carrier.

“Mr. O’Rourke, nice of you to show.” Pollock glances at his watch. “Only an hour late. This is unacceptable. We’re going to have to discuss this.”

O’Rourke shrugs. An intricate ink design creeps up his muscular bicep and disappears beneath the sleeve of his gray T-shirt. My gaze lifts, collides with his. They’re smoky blue, the irises rimmed with a blue so dark it appears almost black. He looks me up and down appraisingly.

Heat bursts over my face at his speculative look. Me. Here. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. I already deduced the same about him.

Except he looks the part.

His hard features remind me of the faces that flash across the television screen—criminals found guilty for committing some horrendous crime, all proven HTS carriers. This guy’s fathomless eyes hold secrets, shadows where light can’t reach.

He doesn’t even acknowledge Pollock. His deep voice rumbles across the air, turning my skin to goose bumps. “Hey, princess.”

I shiver. And then I see it. The proof. I missed it before, too mesmerized by his body, his face, his eyes. His neck bears the mark. The H trapped inside a circle set within a wide ink band that wraps his neck. And maybe it was just that I didn’t expect to see it. Even here. I have never seen one up close before.

Mom must see it, too—must be filled with my same fear, the same curiosity over what he did to get imprinted. She grips my arm like she’s hanging on for life.

“Sean.” Pollock says his name sharply, motioning to the seat. “Sit.”

After a long moment, the boy looks away. He drops in his seat, shaking his hair back from his face, the imprint even more visible now. Like he doesn’t care who sees it.

Mom’s hand slides down my arm to my hand. She gives it a hard tug. I barely hear her whisper, “C’mon.”

She leads me from the cubicle. Still, I glance back over my shoulder at the boy sitting in the chair. I stare at the back of his head, at the dark blond hair my friends would spend ridiculous money for in a salon. I doubt he does anything except shampoo it. It’s rich brown underneath the sun-gold strands. Maybe he works a lot of time in the sun cutting lawns. I can’t imagine my parents hiring him to mow the grass.

He sits so at ease in the chair. Does he care where he is? And why? Did he lose sleep over that imprint on his neck? At his corrupt DNA?

Pollock has already opened his folder and is stabbing his finger threateningly at Sean O’Rourke as he talks. I turn around and let Mom pull me away.

As we leave the building, I’m only sure of one thing.

I’ll never wear that mark.

Conversation between Dr. Wainwright and the United States chief of staff:

SWITZER: At this time, the president is not prepared to take such measures.

WAINWRIGHT: Oh? Instead, he wants the homicide rate to keep climbing? He wants to quarantine another city? I hear you’ve already lost Phoenix.

SWITZER: We have the situation in hand—

WAINWRIGHT: How is it you can even say that with a straight face? The power to test and identify carriers does nothing except tell us who the monsters are. It doesn’t stop them. The president needs to grant me more authority.