Of course. Even as a child, he probably reveled in it. Some kids got bikes for their fifth birthdays. He probably got an automatic rifle.

I wonder if I would have reveled in it, too. If my father hadn’t been a banker. If my mother hadn’t been an interior designer.

“Interesting childhood,” I murmur. “Mine mostly consisted of voice and violin lessons—”

“You sing?” he cuts me off, the amber of his eyes glinting with interest.

“Not anymore.”

His expression turns to disappointment. “Too bad.”

Did he actually think I would sing for him? Here? What? Did he want me to put on a concert out in the main room after dinner?

I move around his desk. Not caring if I look nosy, I pick up a packet of papers and skim them. My eyes widen, and I raise my gaze to him. “This is how to construct some kind of . . . bomb?”

He plucks the papers from my hands. “You shouldn’t look at that.”

“Why? I’m not to be trusted?” I fling this out at him, angling my head, daring him to say he can’t trust me after he’s stated more than once that I should trust him.

“There are security protocols—”

“Right. I need to trust you implicitly, and be happy and laugh while you’re building a bomb to do God knows what?”

He drags a hand through his hair, compressing his lips before expelling a heavy breath. “If I knew you were staying . . . joining us, then I could let you into the fold, Davy.”

Everything inside me freezes at what he’s saying. “W-what?”

“I’m asking you to stay and be a part of this.” He splays his hands wide like he’s offering me something, handing it to me. “It’s better than hiding in some camp in Mexico, crossing your fingers, hoping that you’re never discovered, that the Mexican authorities never decide to get serious about hunting you down.”

“My friends—”

“We can send word you’re alive and well. And you can stay here and do some good. Have a purpose beyond surviving.”

I open my mouth to argue, but this last bit resonates, tempting me. A purpose beyond surviving. That’s the only thing that separates us from animals. Purpose.

“You obviously have some skills. That much you’ve proven. We could use you, Davy.”

Because I killed a man. Someone bigger, stronger. While I was weak from injuries, no less. Like it or not, the cred I wanted so badly for myself when I was at Mount Haven? I’ve earned that here.

He’s moved closer, I realize. The clean smell of his skin swirls around me, and I feel a stab of loneliness. Yearning. That’s maybe the worst part of this new life. The always being apart . . . alone even when you’re surrounded by others.

The gold flecks that make his brown eyes look so fiery are easy to detect standing this close to him. Stupid lashes. They’re longer than any girl could hope for even with the best mascara.

“I—I have to go.” Because being here with him makes me feel like a traitor. Even though those feelings I had for Sean died, I still shouldn’t feel myself leaning toward him like he’s something I need. Food for the starving.

“Always running. From this place to Mexico.” His lips curve, but he doesn’t look amused anymore. Not this time. “From me.”

I shake my head, refusing to believe he’s talking about him and me like there might be something there. An us. It’s so wrong I could laugh at the idea of it. If it didn’t terrify me so much.

“I’m not staying here.” I turn for the door and hesitate to add, “As soon as you get word—”

“I’ll let you know,” he finishes, his voice flat, emotionless.

I stare at him for a moment, not liking the feeling sweeping over me. That I’m somehow a disappointment to him because my purpose isn’t his. That I’m failing to do the right thing here. That used to be my MO. To do the right thing, perform the way everyone expected. My parents. My teachers. I even did that at Mount Haven.

Not anymore. From now on I’m going to be smart and live for me.

* * *

Text Message

8:19 a.m.

Tori:

Hey, hot stuff. Big anti-carrier rally at the capital. You coming?

8:52 a.m.

Zac:

What about a normal date for once? You know. Movies? Dinner?

9:09 a.m.

Tori:

Where’s your commitment to the cause?

9:10 a.m.

Zac:

Your cause. Not mine. I’m not into it. You know that

9:11 a.m.

Tori:

Fine. I’ll go with someone else. Let you sit around and sulk, thinking about her

9:14 a.m.

Zac:

I’m not thinking about her

9:14 a.m.

Tori:

Liar

FOURTEEN

THE DAYS ROLL INTO A WEEK, AND I BEGIN TO FEAR that we’ll never get that message. We’ll never learn which refuge shelters Sean, Gil, and Sabine.

Maybe they didn’t make it.

I ignore that negative inner voice, squashing it like a bug, hoping that it won’t get back up and come at me again.

I see little of Caden. I gather from Junie and Phelps that he leaves almost every day. Goes above to do whatever it is he does. I don’t get to know that kind of information. That much is clear.

I busy myself working out, determined to regain my strength, increasing from a walk to a light run on the treadmill.

I ignore Rhiannon when she suggests—repeatedly—this might not be a good idea with my arm in a sling. I need to get back in shape. It helps. Makes me feel like I have some control over my life again. When the message comes through, I need to be ready to go.