Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1) (17 page)

My heart chills. “The library?”

“Yeah. Wanna go see it? It’s supposed to be pretty neat. Plus, it might help you strategize for the race—you know, picture it in your head.”

“I…” My hands clench the flier which, all of a sudden, feels like a weapon. “I haven’t been to the library in years.”

Franco raises his eyebrows. “Really? You seem like the type who likes to read.”

“I do. In fact, I used to spend a lot of time there. But…” Since it’s summer, I no longer have sleeves to pull down and hide my scars, so I cover my wrists with my hands.

Somehow, Franco understands. “That’s where it happened?” His hands cover my futile attempt to hide the past. He gives my damaged wrists a gentle squeeze.

I nod, tears threatening to form. “On my birthday. When I was eleven.”

He exhales. “Do you want to talk about it? I don’t mean to force you, but I’m willing to listen if you want.”

Again, I feel the need to tell him everything. With everyone else, I always feel the opposite. But he’s different. And so I begin…

used to love the library.” I envision the endless shelves of books, the colorful paintings of famous fairy tale characters in the children’s corner. “After Dad died, I spent every weekend there. It was safe.”

Franco tenses. “Safe? From what?”

“The Suits.” I tremble at the memory.

Franco eases me onto the corner of the bed. “Just sit down. It will be okay.”

My legs collapse beneath me. “You know who I mean, right? Solid black suits. Crisp white shirts. Short hair, shaved to the scalp. And glasses, always with black glasses. They can’t all have bad vision and light sensitivity, right? It’s about intimidation.”

“Yeah, I know who you mean.” His eyes flash, and I detect hatred in their depths. Then he blinks, and it goes away.

“Then you know about the questions.”

Franco takes a deep breath. “What did they ask you?”

“About Dad. Over and over again. They asked about meetings, and names, and papers.”

“What did you tell them?”

I narrow my eyes. “I told them to go to Hell.”

“You told them… to go to Hell? Weren’t you just a kid?” Franco releases his grip on my wrists. “I mean, I realize you’re still a kid, but—”

I stand, brushing him away. “I’m not a kid.”

Franco holds up a hand in supplication. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, but… that’s so
bold.
Weren’t you scared of them? I mean, how old were you back then?”

“Ten.” I put my hands on my hips. “Because I’m eighteen now. Got it? I have a full time job, and I’m
not
a child.”

“I said I was sorry.” Franco pats the bed beside him. “It’s just that I don’t understand. You tell the members of the New Order to… well, basically, to go screw themselves—which is amazing. But, if you had such courage, then why did you… ”

I shudder, my eyes filling with unwelcome tears. “Because they kept coming back.” I sit down, my legs weak again. “I thought they were done with me, that they’d leave us alone after everything that happened. But they came back and ruined the one place I felt safe.”

Franco hands me a tissue and leans against my arm. He feels warm. “Why don’t you start there?”

“On my birthday? When I was eleven?”

“Yes.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Tell me everything.”

Franco’s room fades away. I see my apartment, the cramped one we’ve been forced into. Plants with limp, yellow leaves languish on the counters, dying for light. It’s my eleventh birthday. I get my own breakfast like I’ve done every day since Dad’s death. Mom only picks at the food I place in front of her as an afterthought. Eats only enough to stay alive. After I finish, I shuffle over to my mother in stocking feet. She’s only bitten off the corner of a single slice of toast. She didn’t even get as far as the jam.

“Mom?” I shift my feet.

“Hmm.” She stares out the window like she does every day since Dad died. She’s stopped working. Her violin gathers dust in the corner. She ignores everything—and everyone—including me.

I do the laundry, the dishes, and make each meal the best I can.

All she’ll do is sit there.

“Mom, it’s my birthday.”

“Hmm.” Her hand floats back to pat my arm, but she never even looks at me. “I know. Happy birthday, dear.”

Of course, my birthday also means the one-year anniversary of my father’s death, but for days, even weeks now, I’ve been hoping she’s planned something. A cake, a trip, something special. So we can set everything behind us and just be happy, even if only for a day.

“What are we going to do for my birthday?” I ask.

She sighs, her face still turned away. “What do
you
want to do?”

Disappointment pierces my chest. She hasn’t planned anything. She really doesn’t care about me, anymore. This day will be like any other. I say nothing because I know that, if I speak, the tears will start falling. If I cry, Mom will walk away, go in her room, and shut the door. Then I’ll be even more alone.

“Why don’t you go to the library?” she offers. “You like it there. You could spend the whole day reading books. It would be fun.”

“Are you coming with me?” I wipe away a stubborn tear.

“Why would I come? It’s a children’s library. There’s nothing there for me.”

I pack a sandwich in my backpack and leave her sitting in the window seat, knowing she’ll still be there when I return. I walk the few blocks to the library alone, say hello to the librarians who know me by name, then run my fingers down the aisles of book titles, searching for something I’ve never read before. After I find a small stack, I choose a quiet corner, set the pile beside me, and get lost in another world. Some place better than mine. I stay in that same spot all morning, eat my lunch, and have started in on a new book when I feel a hard tap on my shoulder.

I glance up.

It takes a moment to focus in on the dark glasses. There are three Suits this time. They form a semi-circle, hemming me in. The librarians whisper in the background, hovering together, staring as the Suits shatter the quiet comfort of the library. One of the Suits steps forward and leans down, so his glasses are all I can see.

“Silvia Wood?” He growls in a heavy, almost inhuman voice. His breath smells like metal and mint.

I don’t want to answer but have to. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Come with us,” he orders.

The other two grab my arms and lift me onto my feet. Books drop to the floor. They drag me across the room, my toes barely touching the ground.

At first, I assume they’re taking me to the elevator, but they step just to the side, insert a metal key, and unlock an almost-hidden door. It’s so smooth; you can barely detect the outline. I’ve never noticed it before. They yank me inside.

It’s another White Room. Like all the others.

White ceiling. White floor. Mirrors on all sides. Blinding light.

A chair in the middle which they shove me into.

“Do you know what day this is?” the head guy demands.

“Yes. It’s my birthday.”

CRACK!

My cheek stings after he smacks me across the face. But I smirk at them instead of crying. My hate is greater than my pain.

“Show some respect,” he growls. “It’s the one-year anniversary of the accident claiming fifty-three lives—all lost because of your father.”

It takes a moment for his words to hit me. “What did you say?”

“Our investigation revealed that
your father
caused the explosion. He was a rebel, working against the New Order. He was responsible. He caused the death of fifty-three people and the endless suffering of their families. It was only due to his own stupidity that he died during the explosion. He planned it so that he’d be gone while the others suffered at his handiwork, but he didn’t leave in time.”

The room spins. These damning words hurt worse than any slap to my cheek. I turn inward, blocking everything out. Even as they scream in my ears, the Suits fade away.

Instead, I see my birthday cake, left uneaten. Mom dancing with me, singing “Happy Birthday,” interrupted by Dad’s phone call telling us he’d be late. Waiting for hours for his return. The loud knocking at the door. The Suits barging in, yelling questions, going through our belongings. Breaking things. Throwing them around. Mom leaning against the wall, almost comatose. Me running through our disheveled apartment, hollering at the Suits to go away.

Then they pull out my red dress.

Mom flies across the room, rips it out of their hands, and screams in a strange, high-pitched voice. “Leave her alone! You can’t take all of her memories! How could you be so heartless? It’s all she has left!”

And that is the last time she’s shown any interest in me.

Everything has been gray from that point on. The sky is gray. The light in the apartment is gray. And Mom’s face, once so lovely, is drawn and gray.

And this is how it will always be.

It will never get better.

And it’s all my father’s fault, or so they say.

It’s hard to know what’s true or false.

The Suits surround me on every side. My head swims. I can’t stay here in this horrible white room. I need to escape from their scowling faces, their accusations, and their lies.

I struggle to my feet. “I have to use the bathroom.”

They shove me back into the chair, skidding it halfway across the room. “That’s all you have to say? Tell us about your father. Tell us everything you know. We know you’re covering for him. We’ll beat it out of you if we have to.”

“All you’ll get is pee all over your clean floor if you don’t let me use the bathroom,” I warn.

The Suits argue. One gestures at another. “Take her, then. And hurry.”

“Thank you.” I smile, knowing I’m not coming back.

I walk calmly to the bathroom, lock the door, and hunt for an escape. All I find is my face in the mirror. I grab the metal chair in the corner of the room and smash it against my reflection.

My face shatters.

Voices yell in the hallway.

The doorknob rattles but holds.

Shards of glass scatter across the floor.

I grab one and plunge it into my flesh. The pain will rescue me.

They aren’t going to get me. I’ll fly away. Any way I can. Even if it kills me.

Warm blood spurts over my hands.

I slide to the floor.

The room turns so cold.

I start to shake.

It’s not like Mom will even notice I’m gone.