I must have dozed off. I lift my head from my arms at the sound of the Cage door opening. My heart leaps. For a moment, I think that this horrible day is over and I can go home. A quick glance at the clock reveals I still have hours to go. My heart sinks.
I look up as another student enters the Cage. A boy. Mr. Tucci hadn’t been wrong apparently.
There are six of us.
I don’t have time to wonder at his tardiness because I get my first good look at his face and everything inside me seizes hard, like a car locking up on its brakes.
My gaze shoots to the tattoo collar around his neck. The sight of the circle H transfixes me. It’s familiar. And not because I’ve seen it on some news feature calling for greater involvement from the Wainwright Agency. I saw this specific one yesterday in Mr. Pollock’s cubicle.
The same sun-streaked hair almost brushing his shoulders. The smoke-blue eyes beneath thick, slashing eyebrows several shades darker than his hair. Sean O’Rourke.
He tucks a lock of sun-streaked hair behind his ear as he moves inside the Cage, his stride loose and confident. It’s like he doesn’t care that he’s advertising himself as a carrier for everyone to see. It’s like he’s comfortable with what he is. Not a hint of shame to him.
He hasn’t seen me yet. I don’t breathe, facing forward, watching to see where he sits, expecting him to sit with Nathan and his buddy. He doesn’t. Instead, he takes the first desk he reaches, close to the door, close to me.
He slides into his chair, his frame almost too large for the desk. And that’s when he looks up at me. Heat crawls over my face, but I can’t look away from the recognition lighting his eyes. His expression doesn’t change. He remains stoic and unaffected.
After a moment, he arches one eyebrow—and I realize I’m gawking like some middle school girl drooling over her first crush.
With a small gasp, I snap my gaze straight ahead. A quick glance reveals Coco still doing her thing like nothing has changed. Like a confirmed carrier hasn’t just walked into our midst. Gil glances at me. I only get a brief look at his face, but it’s enough. He gives a slight encouraging nod and I know he’s telling me that this new arrival is the type of “friend” he thinks I should have. It dawns on me that Sean O’Rourke must be the “he” that Nathan said couldn’t protect Gil forever.
He must be joking. Sean O’Rourke . . . a good guy? The evidence is there. On his neck. He can’t be. My insides heave and tremble at the thought of approaching him. How does one even befriend a carrier? An imprinted carrier? And just to remain safe? It seems a bit of a contradiction. And one I’m not about to put to the test.
The bell rings at two thirty and I anxiously start gathering my things, stopping when Brockman’s voice rings out.
“Not yet, Davy. That’s for the regular kids.” My face burns at being singled out—and the reminder that I’m not a “regular” kid. “Ya’ll leave in thirty minutes after the halls have cleared out.”
I sit in my chair and face forward, blinking eyes that unaccountably sting. After everything, this shouldn’t get to me. This shouldn’t make me want to cry.
But it does. Regular kids. Which I’m not. None of us in here are.
My gaze sweeps around me. He’s looking directly at me, his expression still that blank nothingness. I make the mistake of wondering what he’s thinking as he stares at me with those deeply set eyes. Because my mind immediately wonders if it has something to do with gags and hacksaws.
I spin back around. Only a couple more months of this. I slip down in my chair, fortifying myself with that reminder. In the grand scheme, a couple months won’t amount to much.
The minutes drag by. Finally, Brockman announces, “Okay, you can get out of here. See ya tomorrow.”
I’m the first out of my desk. I fly past Sean as he rises, casually stuffing a notebook into his backpack. Like someone announced the building is on fire, I move, swing my backpack on my shoulder, and truck it out of the Cage.
Even thirty minutes after the bell, a few students loiter in the halls, but fortunately none point at me like I’m some sort of freak show. The newest addition to the killers on campus. I cross my arms, tucking the colored ID flapping against my chest out of sight. Just in case. No need to call undue attention to myself.
I’m almost to the parking lot—Mom and I took separate vehicles so I could get home on my own—when I realize I left my purse in the room. Everything is in it. My wallet and phone. My keys. Stupid.
Groaning, I spin back on my heel and head back into the building. I pass Gil. His eyes meet mine, widen for a moment, and then jerk away as he scurries past. I don’t see any of the others on the way back down, and count my blessings.
When I arrive at the Cage, it’s empty. Brockman’s no longer at his desk. Guess he was as eager to leave this place as we were.
The gate is unlocked, thankfully. My bag is under the desk just where I left it. Just to be safe, I give it a quick inspection to make sure everything is still there.
And that’s when I hear a sound. Like someone . . . crying.
I glance around, confirming I’m alone in the Cage. Thinking someone might be hurt, I inch forward, scanning the room. The door to the storage closet is shut, but as I near it I hear the noise again. A muffled whimper. Louder this time. I close my hand around the knob, my heart thumping hard against my ribs.
I turn the knob and push open. The door swings soundlessly. A path of bright fluorescent light spills into the dim room directly on two people.
It takes my mind a moment to register what my eyes are seeing. Coco pinned between Mr. Brockman and a rack of basketballs. Kissing. His back is to me, but one of his hands grips her shoulder, the other her butt. The sight of that hand on her snares my attention. His nails are jagged and shorn to the quick like he spends a good portion of every day chewing them.
I take it all in within a moment. With a quick, horrible sweep of my gaze.
Brockman doesn’t see me, but Coco’s eyes are opened. The heavily lined eyes fall on me. They glitter through her ragged bangs, locking on me. Rage lights up their depths. The venom there stabs me. She tears her face free. “Get out! Get out of here!”
Brockman swings around.
I gasp and slam the door shut, unwilling to watch another moment. I hate that I saw what I just did. Just as much as I hate that they saw me seeing them. If I could burn the image from my corneas I would.
This time I run.
911 Transcript
911 DISPATCHER 3026: Operator 3026, what is your emergency?
MARIE DOYLE: This is Marie Doyle at 1919 Elmwood in Boerne. I have a carrier living down the street from me.
911 DISPATCHER 3026: (typing) D-O-Y-L-E. 1919 Elmwood.
MARIE DQYLE: Yes.
911 DISPATCHER 3026: Okay, ah, yes, ma’am. Um, has the carrier done anything specifically—
MARIE DOYLE: She’s a carrier! That means she’s a killer.
911 DISPATCHER 3026: But she hasn’t assaulted you in any way—
MARIE DOYLE: Are you kidding? (loud slam) Are you a mother? I have two small children. How am I supposed to let them play outside? We moved here because it’s supposed to be a safe place. . . .
911 DISPATCHER 3026: I understand your distress, ma’am, I do, but unless she threatens you or your family, I can’t help you.
MARIE DOYLE: Great! You’ll come when I’m dead then? Fantastic! Good people like me shouldn’t have to live in fear. This is wrong. Carriers should be behind bars. I watch the news. That’s where they’re headed.
911 DISPATCHER 3026: I understand, ma’am. But for now you’re going to have to sit tight. Stay vigilant. If she makes the smallest threat, please . . . call us back. . . .
SEVEN
MITCHELL FINDS ME IN MY ROOM. I’M STILL IN MY bathrobe, my hair a wet, unbrushed snarl. I showered as soon as I got home. As if I could wash away the day. The Cage. The sight of Brockman and Coco in that storage closet. I guess I understood now why Nathan left her alone . . . and why Gil thinks I need an ally.
He catches me tuning my guitar, singing lightly to myself as I adjust the pegs and testing the strings. “Hey.” He drops down on my bed, tucking a pillow under his head. “How was it?”
I set my guitar down and swirl to face him on my chair, tucking my hands beneath my thighs. They’re still shaking. I haven’t stopped shaking since I ran to my car. “I can’t go back.”
“C’mon. It’s just until May. And Mom said it would look good with the Agency if you finished out the year at school. . . . Show them that you can function in the real world—”
I just look at him. I know my expression is bitter. Because last week I was functioning in the real world. I was better than functioning. But now I have to prove it?
“You know what I learned today? That they don’t want anyone with HTS to function in the real world.” I air quote the word function. “They keep us isolated. I’m stuck in a cage with a bunch of other carriers and some pervy teacher.”
He sits up. “What do you mean ‘pervy’? What happened?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.” If I tell him, he’ll tell Mom and Dad and then what? In the last forty-eight hours, I’ve discovered just how little influence my parents truly possess. There’s no point going to them for help. They can’t do anything.
He stares at me for a long moment before finally saying, “You’re better than this, Davy. I know you can handle it.”
Shaking my head, I groan in frustration. “Why are you so sure?”
“Because you’re you. You can do anything. When you were three years old you sat down at the piano and played like you’ve been doing it all your life. And as if being a music prodigy isn’t enough, when you were four years old you walked into my room and finished the puzzle that had been kicking my ass for the past week.”
I smile. “I don’t remember that.”
“Yeah. Well. It pissed me off. It hasn’t always been easy having a little sister who’s better at everything than you are.”
My smile slips. “Sorry.”
He drops a fist on the bed. “Don’t apologize for being smarter than I am. I got over it. Basically, I’m . . . I’m just proud of you. And this crap doesn’t change that. It doesn’t change you.”
My phone chimes. I pick it up and read the message. My stomach dips. “It’s Zac.”
“Told you he’d come around.”
“He’s outside.”
He hesitates for a moment. “Well, you better get dressed. I’ll let him in.”
I wait for Mitchell to leave and then change into jeans and a T-shirt. I’m attacking my hair with my brush when there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Zac sticks his head in first. He’s never done that before. Usually, he breezes in like he owns the place. “Hey.”
I wave him inside.
He steps in. “How are you?”
“Okay,” I say because I’m not going to burden him with the kind of day I had. Even if I wasn’t embarrassed—which I am—I wouldn’t want him to know just how different I’ve become. Just how far apart we suddenly are.
He sits on the corner of my bed. “I—I miss you.”
My chest lightens and I finally feel like myself for the first time in days. This is me. Here with Zac. “I miss you, too.” It takes everything in me not to cry. My eyes burn, swollen and unbearably tight, but I keep it in.
He moves, drops onto the carpet, and crouches on his knees before me. “I’m sorry I was such a jerk.” He slides his arms around my waist and looks up at me. “I shouldn’t have run off—”
“No.” I hold his face in my hands. “Anybody would have been freaked out.”
“I shouldn’t have been. I mean, it’s you. . . . I know you’re not some killer. No matter what others—”
I look up as another student enters the Cage. A boy. Mr. Tucci hadn’t been wrong apparently.
There are six of us.
I don’t have time to wonder at his tardiness because I get my first good look at his face and everything inside me seizes hard, like a car locking up on its brakes.
My gaze shoots to the tattoo collar around his neck. The sight of the circle H transfixes me. It’s familiar. And not because I’ve seen it on some news feature calling for greater involvement from the Wainwright Agency. I saw this specific one yesterday in Mr. Pollock’s cubicle.
The same sun-streaked hair almost brushing his shoulders. The smoke-blue eyes beneath thick, slashing eyebrows several shades darker than his hair. Sean O’Rourke.
He tucks a lock of sun-streaked hair behind his ear as he moves inside the Cage, his stride loose and confident. It’s like he doesn’t care that he’s advertising himself as a carrier for everyone to see. It’s like he’s comfortable with what he is. Not a hint of shame to him.
He hasn’t seen me yet. I don’t breathe, facing forward, watching to see where he sits, expecting him to sit with Nathan and his buddy. He doesn’t. Instead, he takes the first desk he reaches, close to the door, close to me.
He slides into his chair, his frame almost too large for the desk. And that’s when he looks up at me. Heat crawls over my face, but I can’t look away from the recognition lighting his eyes. His expression doesn’t change. He remains stoic and unaffected.
After a moment, he arches one eyebrow—and I realize I’m gawking like some middle school girl drooling over her first crush.
With a small gasp, I snap my gaze straight ahead. A quick glance reveals Coco still doing her thing like nothing has changed. Like a confirmed carrier hasn’t just walked into our midst. Gil glances at me. I only get a brief look at his face, but it’s enough. He gives a slight encouraging nod and I know he’s telling me that this new arrival is the type of “friend” he thinks I should have. It dawns on me that Sean O’Rourke must be the “he” that Nathan said couldn’t protect Gil forever.
He must be joking. Sean O’Rourke . . . a good guy? The evidence is there. On his neck. He can’t be. My insides heave and tremble at the thought of approaching him. How does one even befriend a carrier? An imprinted carrier? And just to remain safe? It seems a bit of a contradiction. And one I’m not about to put to the test.
The bell rings at two thirty and I anxiously start gathering my things, stopping when Brockman’s voice rings out.
“Not yet, Davy. That’s for the regular kids.” My face burns at being singled out—and the reminder that I’m not a “regular” kid. “Ya’ll leave in thirty minutes after the halls have cleared out.”
I sit in my chair and face forward, blinking eyes that unaccountably sting. After everything, this shouldn’t get to me. This shouldn’t make me want to cry.
But it does. Regular kids. Which I’m not. None of us in here are.
My gaze sweeps around me. He’s looking directly at me, his expression still that blank nothingness. I make the mistake of wondering what he’s thinking as he stares at me with those deeply set eyes. Because my mind immediately wonders if it has something to do with gags and hacksaws.
I spin back around. Only a couple more months of this. I slip down in my chair, fortifying myself with that reminder. In the grand scheme, a couple months won’t amount to much.
The minutes drag by. Finally, Brockman announces, “Okay, you can get out of here. See ya tomorrow.”
I’m the first out of my desk. I fly past Sean as he rises, casually stuffing a notebook into his backpack. Like someone announced the building is on fire, I move, swing my backpack on my shoulder, and truck it out of the Cage.
Even thirty minutes after the bell, a few students loiter in the halls, but fortunately none point at me like I’m some sort of freak show. The newest addition to the killers on campus. I cross my arms, tucking the colored ID flapping against my chest out of sight. Just in case. No need to call undue attention to myself.
I’m almost to the parking lot—Mom and I took separate vehicles so I could get home on my own—when I realize I left my purse in the room. Everything is in it. My wallet and phone. My keys. Stupid.
Groaning, I spin back on my heel and head back into the building. I pass Gil. His eyes meet mine, widen for a moment, and then jerk away as he scurries past. I don’t see any of the others on the way back down, and count my blessings.
When I arrive at the Cage, it’s empty. Brockman’s no longer at his desk. Guess he was as eager to leave this place as we were.
The gate is unlocked, thankfully. My bag is under the desk just where I left it. Just to be safe, I give it a quick inspection to make sure everything is still there.
And that’s when I hear a sound. Like someone . . . crying.
I glance around, confirming I’m alone in the Cage. Thinking someone might be hurt, I inch forward, scanning the room. The door to the storage closet is shut, but as I near it I hear the noise again. A muffled whimper. Louder this time. I close my hand around the knob, my heart thumping hard against my ribs.
I turn the knob and push open. The door swings soundlessly. A path of bright fluorescent light spills into the dim room directly on two people.
It takes my mind a moment to register what my eyes are seeing. Coco pinned between Mr. Brockman and a rack of basketballs. Kissing. His back is to me, but one of his hands grips her shoulder, the other her butt. The sight of that hand on her snares my attention. His nails are jagged and shorn to the quick like he spends a good portion of every day chewing them.
I take it all in within a moment. With a quick, horrible sweep of my gaze.
Brockman doesn’t see me, but Coco’s eyes are opened. The heavily lined eyes fall on me. They glitter through her ragged bangs, locking on me. Rage lights up their depths. The venom there stabs me. She tears her face free. “Get out! Get out of here!”
Brockman swings around.
I gasp and slam the door shut, unwilling to watch another moment. I hate that I saw what I just did. Just as much as I hate that they saw me seeing them. If I could burn the image from my corneas I would.
This time I run.
911 Transcript
911 DISPATCHER 3026: Operator 3026, what is your emergency?
MARIE DOYLE: This is Marie Doyle at 1919 Elmwood in Boerne. I have a carrier living down the street from me.
911 DISPATCHER 3026: (typing) D-O-Y-L-E. 1919 Elmwood.
MARIE DQYLE: Yes.
911 DISPATCHER 3026: Okay, ah, yes, ma’am. Um, has the carrier done anything specifically—
MARIE DOYLE: She’s a carrier! That means she’s a killer.
911 DISPATCHER 3026: But she hasn’t assaulted you in any way—
MARIE DOYLE: Are you kidding? (loud slam) Are you a mother? I have two small children. How am I supposed to let them play outside? We moved here because it’s supposed to be a safe place. . . .
911 DISPATCHER 3026: I understand your distress, ma’am, I do, but unless she threatens you or your family, I can’t help you.
MARIE DOYLE: Great! You’ll come when I’m dead then? Fantastic! Good people like me shouldn’t have to live in fear. This is wrong. Carriers should be behind bars. I watch the news. That’s where they’re headed.
911 DISPATCHER 3026: I understand, ma’am. But for now you’re going to have to sit tight. Stay vigilant. If she makes the smallest threat, please . . . call us back. . . .
SEVEN
MITCHELL FINDS ME IN MY ROOM. I’M STILL IN MY bathrobe, my hair a wet, unbrushed snarl. I showered as soon as I got home. As if I could wash away the day. The Cage. The sight of Brockman and Coco in that storage closet. I guess I understood now why Nathan left her alone . . . and why Gil thinks I need an ally.
He catches me tuning my guitar, singing lightly to myself as I adjust the pegs and testing the strings. “Hey.” He drops down on my bed, tucking a pillow under his head. “How was it?”
I set my guitar down and swirl to face him on my chair, tucking my hands beneath my thighs. They’re still shaking. I haven’t stopped shaking since I ran to my car. “I can’t go back.”
“C’mon. It’s just until May. And Mom said it would look good with the Agency if you finished out the year at school. . . . Show them that you can function in the real world—”
I just look at him. I know my expression is bitter. Because last week I was functioning in the real world. I was better than functioning. But now I have to prove it?
“You know what I learned today? That they don’t want anyone with HTS to function in the real world.” I air quote the word function. “They keep us isolated. I’m stuck in a cage with a bunch of other carriers and some pervy teacher.”
He sits up. “What do you mean ‘pervy’? What happened?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.” If I tell him, he’ll tell Mom and Dad and then what? In the last forty-eight hours, I’ve discovered just how little influence my parents truly possess. There’s no point going to them for help. They can’t do anything.
He stares at me for a long moment before finally saying, “You’re better than this, Davy. I know you can handle it.”
Shaking my head, I groan in frustration. “Why are you so sure?”
“Because you’re you. You can do anything. When you were three years old you sat down at the piano and played like you’ve been doing it all your life. And as if being a music prodigy isn’t enough, when you were four years old you walked into my room and finished the puzzle that had been kicking my ass for the past week.”
I smile. “I don’t remember that.”
“Yeah. Well. It pissed me off. It hasn’t always been easy having a little sister who’s better at everything than you are.”
My smile slips. “Sorry.”
He drops a fist on the bed. “Don’t apologize for being smarter than I am. I got over it. Basically, I’m . . . I’m just proud of you. And this crap doesn’t change that. It doesn’t change you.”
My phone chimes. I pick it up and read the message. My stomach dips. “It’s Zac.”
“Told you he’d come around.”
“He’s outside.”
He hesitates for a moment. “Well, you better get dressed. I’ll let him in.”
I wait for Mitchell to leave and then change into jeans and a T-shirt. I’m attacking my hair with my brush when there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Zac sticks his head in first. He’s never done that before. Usually, he breezes in like he owns the place. “Hey.”
I wave him inside.
He steps in. “How are you?”
“Okay,” I say because I’m not going to burden him with the kind of day I had. Even if I wasn’t embarrassed—which I am—I wouldn’t want him to know just how different I’ve become. Just how far apart we suddenly are.
He sits on the corner of my bed. “I—I miss you.”
My chest lightens and I finally feel like myself for the first time in days. This is me. Here with Zac. “I miss you, too.” It takes everything in me not to cry. My eyes burn, swollen and unbearably tight, but I keep it in.
He moves, drops onto the carpet, and crouches on his knees before me. “I’m sorry I was such a jerk.” He slides his arms around my waist and looks up at me. “I shouldn’t have run off—”
“No.” I hold his face in my hands. “Anybody would have been freaked out.”
“I shouldn’t have been. I mean, it’s you. . . . I know you’re not some killer. No matter what others—”
