Compliance (20 page)

“She refused to stay at work after she heard the news.” He tugs at the sleeve of his shirt. “She’s torn up about Scout
and says she’s not going back to work.” He slumps. “I can’t lose her.”

“I’ll talk to her.” I squeeze his thin upper arm. If Jayma misses work again tomorrow, she’ll be flagged and in danger of being designated a Parasite and expunged. It might not happen right away given the backlog, but once she’s flagged, her future in Haven will be bleak. She’ll never get promoted and will more likely be demoted to sewage or another dangerous task.

Her dad slides down the door to land in a pile at its base, his head in his hands. Leaving him, I go behind the screen to discover Jayma’s not asleep but sitting across her mattress, knees tucked into her chest and leaning against the wall.

“Hi.” I kneel beside her.

She doesn’t respond. Her eyes stare blankly ahead and I’m not convinced she’s noticed my presence.

“I’m so sorry, Jayma. I can’t imagine… But I’ve got great news.” I get no reaction, and as I shift closer, I can feel the floor through Jayma’s thin mattress. I’ve become so used to the luxury of my nearly two-inch mattress at the barracks. “I saw Scout.”

Her head spins toward me, eyes wide. “His body? Have they taken him for composting yet?”

“No.” I clutch her arm. She’s cold. “He’s alive. He broke several bones and hurt his head, but they’re taking care of him, helping him mend.”

She pulls away from me and her eyes narrow. “You’re lying. You’re one of them now.”

I suck in a sharp breath. “No, I’m still me, Glory. Your
friend. Honest. The VP of H&S took me on a tour of the Hospital. She let me see Scout.”

“Listen to yourself.” Her voice is cold, so unlike Jayma. “You are part of Management now. How can you trust those people?”

“I saw Scout.” My voice catches. “I touched his face. He’s alive. They’re helping him get better.”

“Swear you’re not lying.” She clutches my forearm, her thin fingers digging into my flesh, awakening sore muscles and bruises from training. “Swear this isn’t some kind of trick to get me to go to work.”

“I swear, Jayma. I swear on my life.”

Tears fill her eyes. Diving forward, she wraps her arms around me and sobs. Her tears wet my neck and I stroke her back, resisting the urge to cry too. Stress and fatigue have me on the edge of a cliff. If I give in to those feelings or take solace in tears, I’ll plummet off the edge, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to climb back up to accomplish everything left on my plate.

I still haven’t found Gage’s son. I still haven’t identified the mole. And I still have no idea how to convince the rebels they shouldn’t set bombs at the President’s Birthday—only four days away.

When Jayma’s breath returns, she takes one of my hands and grips it like she might never let go. “I feel like I’m living in a nightmare. Seeing things.”

“I’m so sorry, Jayma. I wish I could have come sooner.” I hug her again. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to be brave. For Scout.”

“You—you saw Scout? Really?”

“Yes. He’s still alive and they think he’s going to get better.”

“I think I’m going insane from the grief.” She draws a long, jagged breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I even thought I saw that Deviant—the one who kidnapped you.”

I stiffen and push back to see into her eyes. “Where?” Did she really see Burn? Or was it Zina? Or could it be her imagination like she thinks?

“It was up on the roof.” Her expression hardens. “He appeared out of nowhere and tried to talk to me, but I yelled, told him to go, and he disappeared.” She shudders. “That’s how I know it was my imagination. There’s no way someone that big could move so quickly.”

It sounds exactly like Burn. “Where did you see him? I need to know. What did he say?” It wasn’t her imagination, but I can’t be sure whether it was Burn or Zina.

Her forehead wrinkles. “He asked me to tell you to meet him.”

“Where? When?” I’m not sure how I’ll face Zina, knowing what she did to Scout. Still, if she’s my only way to regain contact with the FA, so be it.

“He wants to meet you on the roof.”

My chest tightens. “When?”

“Any night. He said he’d be watching, looking for you.” She shivers. “So creepy.”

“When was this?” My breaths quicken and my legs twitch, wanting to move. Wanting to run up to the roof this minute.

“Earlier tonight. Just after the moon light came on.” She takes my hand and squeezes. “But don’t worry. I was just upset about Scout—afraid for him—and it brought back memories of your kidnapping. I’m sure that’s why I imagined that monster.” Her eyes refill with tears and she slumps against the wall. “My dream was a bad omen. I’m going to lose you too.”

“No.” My hand shakes as I reach up to brush her hair back. The idea that Burn might actually be inside Haven both terrifies and thrills me, but it was more likely Zina. She approached Jayma to threaten me. To let me see how easily she can get to people I love. Nausea pushes up my throat.

What if Zina knew Scout was on that scaffolding work crew? What if she targeted Scout, knowing that hurting him would hurt me? Does she hate me, hate Burn, hate my father that much?

If Zina loosened those bolts to send me a message, then it’s my fault that Scout fell and ended up in Hospital. My fault that his coworkers were killed.

Guilt swarms and rises inside me. What have I done? In my attempt to help others, I’ve endangered my friends. And since Zina can come and go from Haven, my brother and father might be in danger, too. I know she hates Dad.

“What’s the matter?” Jayma asks through glassy eyes, and I shake my head.

“Promise me you’ll go to work tomorrow?”

She nods but I’m not sure I believe her.

I kiss her forehead. “I need to go.”

She grabs my shoulders. “Make me a promise too?”

“Anything.”

“Promise me you’ll never lie to me about Scout.” She swallows hard. “Even if they kill him, you’ve got to tell me. Promise.”

I hug her one last time. “I promise, Jayma. I won’t lie to you and I won’t let anyone hurt Scout.”

L
ANDING IN A
crouch on a rooftop, I turn back and see nothing behind me. Still, I’m certain I’m being followed. I waited for an hour on the roof for Burn, but he didn’t come. I can’t wait any longer. And it’s too late to go to Gage’s wife’s house tonight.

Talking to Jayma left me uneasy—paranoid—and I’m imagining Zina everywhere. She claims she can pose as anyone, any time, any place, and I’m chilled at the thought that she might be targeting my friends.

A shadow shifts on the other side of the roof.

I drop to the gravel and blink, staring at the spot against a low wall where I saw movement. Nothing’s moving there now, so I creep across the roof and step onto the foot-wide bridge that joins this building to the next.

Underneath me, dozens of other makeshift bridges
crisscross, blocking my view of the ground over twenty stories below. This top bridge is narrow—two metal beams bound together—and it slopes down at an angle to the lower roof. I move quickly to maintain my balance and avoid plummeting to my death.

A bang startles me.

I waver to the side, catch my balance, and race across the final ten feet, jumping off the end to land in a crouch. The grimy flap of a rooftop dwelling opens and a man’s face peeks out.

It’s hours past curfew, but I stride toward him as if my being here is natural. He watches me through narrowed eyes, then his focus shifts to something behind me and alarm fills his eyes.

I spin but no one’s there.

I take long breaths to slow my heart rate as I continue across the roof. When I reach the edge, I discover nothing more than a narrow metal ladder that leads up and across to a stone ledge around the next building. The rusty ladder’s in bad shape and I scan it to gauge whether or not there are enough rungs to cross, or whether I’d be better off trying to jump the span.

I reject the latter idea. It’s got to be twenty-one or twenty-two feet across, and the bridge below is lined with wrought iron spikes. Miss the jump and I’ll be impaled.

I test my weight, the ladder bends alarmingly, and I almost decide to go back and find another route home; but I look over my shoulder and the man’s still watching me suspiciously. I forge ahead.

Halfway across the ladder, a rung gives way under my foot, and I drop between the rails, grabbing one side.

Hanging by one hand I look down to the spikes below and wait for my heart to stop pounding so fast and so hard. It’s only about twelve more feet to the ledge, but the ladder slopes up at a sharp angle and there are only three shaky-looking rungs between me and my destination.

Best to go hand over hand along the ladder’s rails, rather than taking another chance on a rung.

From my position dangling under the ladder, getting onto the narrow ledge at the ladder’s end will be a challenge, but it’s either try or fall to my death. The ladder vibrates and bounces each time I move one of my hands, and I hope the hooks holding it to the concrete are secure.

A jagged metal shard digs into my palm, and pain shoots through my hand and up my arm to my neck. I can’t let go. Five more feet and I’ll be close enough to swing a leg up onto the ledge.

A dark shadow moves above me. Someone lands on the ledge.

“Give me your hand.” The voice is deep and heavy. Burn.

I freeze. It could be Zina and she’s more likely to kill me than help.

I twist to look back, but someone, probably the man I saw, has raised a panel that completely blocks my access back onto his roof. I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t unhook the ladder to let it drop

“Stubborn as ever,” Burn says.

I can’t hold onto this ladder much longer, and there’s
no way back. Ignoring my fear, I continue along the ladder’s sides, blood dripping down my wrists and onto my forearms, my grip threatening to slip from the slick liquid.

“Let me help,” Burn says.

“Is it really you?” Something in his voice makes me believe it really is him.

“Who else would it be?”

“Help me, then.” I reach my hand up. Even if this is Zina, I don’t have an option, so I choose to believe that it’s Burn until I’m on the ledge.

Burn leans onto the ladder, grips my forearm, and pulls me until I’m leaning over the ladder’s rails, a few feet from the ledge. The rungs creak under our combined weight, and he lets go and shifts his weight back onto the ledge.

“You can make it from there,” he says as a statement, not a question. He sidesteps about ten feet along the ledge and ducks into an entrance to the building.

Panting, I pull myself up and onto the ledge and consider whether to follow him inside. I don’t know of another route into this building, and every window I saw while hanging from the ladder was blocked.

Unsteady, I press my back into the wall and tip my head forward. The drop to the ground seems endless. I’ve traversed ledges like this more times than I can count and have never felt nervous of heights. Until now.

I cautiously sidestep, and when I reach the entrance—a hole bashed through the building’s side to enlarge a former window—I grip a jagged stone, swing in, and then jump down the small distance to the floor.

Faint light glows from the end of the corridor and I squint to encourage my eyes to form shapes from the shadows.

Burn’s large hand grabs my arm.

Or is it Zina?
Revulsion grabs my guts and I pull back. “Murderer.” The word bursts from deep in my gut. “My friend was on that scaffolding.”

“What scaffolding?” Zina’s impersonation of Burn’s deep voice hums inside me and I resent how well she deceived me. She won’t do it again. But something deep in my gut says this really is Burn. I wish I had some way to be sure.

“You need to put pressure on those cuts.” Burn shifts and the dim light strikes his face, glancing off the hard lines of his cheekbones and glinting from his eyes—eyes that penetrate mine in a way that makes me feel like he can see inside me, see my heart beat, my lungs draw air, my mind form thoughts.
Is it Burn?

Whoever it is in this very male body, he opens his long coat and pulls out a length of cloth. Not asking, he grabs my arm and binds my palm tightly. “Those cuts bled well, but rinse them when you get home.”

I pull my hand away. “If you’re going to kill me, get it over with. Don’t go after my friends.”

“Kill you?” He leans back. “Why would I kill you?”

“I know it’s you, Zina.”

“Zina?” He thumps a fist against the wall. “That bitch.”

Suspicion fogs my mind and I back away. “How do I know you’re not her?”

He lunges forward, putting one hand on either side of me against the wall to trap me. Typical Burn move, but I duck under one arm and run. Before I get far, he grabs me, holding me from behind.

“That bitch impersonated me?” His voice growls into my ear, and I try to slow my heart rate, my breathing.

His iron grip on me loosens and I shift my weight lower, hoping I can flip him over me and onto his back, but he’s too big. I need another technique.

“Glory. Calm down. I can feel your heart racing. It’s me.” He holds me tightly. “What did Zina do? If she hurt you, I’ll kill her.”

“I still don’t know you’re not her.”

He spins me to face him, but doesn’t let go. His hands grip my shoulders. The tendons on his neck twitch and strain; his jaw hardens. If this is Burn, he might turn into his monster.

He releases me and backs off a few steps. “I can prove it’s me.” He digs under the neckline of his shirt and pulls out a string. “Look.” Something glints as it hangs from the end.

My heart skips. My mother’s ring. “Where? How?”

“I went back for it.” He leans against the opposite wall.

I slide down to sit, energy drained by memories of the day I last saw that ring—not to mention the horrible truth of why I threw it away. I tossed it into the woods when I learned that I’d killed my mom.

For the three years that followed my horrible crime, I believed that my father, not me, was her killer. And my dad
let me believe it. Let me hate him. Let himself be expunged to protect me. And all that time, I wore my mother’s ring for comfort.