Article 5 (Article 5 #1)(37)

But as I made my way into the changing area, the laughter died in my throat. The dressing room was the size of a closet, and without the bright overhead lights, it looked like the containment cell I had seen in the shack.

I wasn’t about to shut myself inside.

I scanned for Chase but couldn’t find him. I was glad he hadn’t seen me falter; the last thing I needed was him thinking I was afraid of guns and the dark. With a deep breath, I dropped the items right where I was and hurried to change before he came looking for me.

The jeans fit pretty well, though they were loose around the waist from the weight I’d dropped at the reform school. I was midway through pulling down the tank top when I heard rustling behind me.

I spun toward the sound and saw Chase, ten feet away, wearing jeans and a new sweatshirt and carrying a pack over one shoulder. I twisted back away from him, the tank still hiked above my bra.

“Give me a second!” My voice hitched. “Turn around or something!”

He didn’t listen. He closed the space between us. I heard him breathing, felt the closeness of his body. I was frozen in place, but inside, every inch of me was taut and live with electricity. How long had he been standing there, watching me?

“What happened to you at the reformatory?” His voice was just above a whisper, hedged with a barely restrained violence.

“What?” As if submerged in a pool of ice water, my fingers finally thawed enough to pull down my shirt. I threw the other pieces over top.

“When I got there, they brought me down to that room, and I heard you. I can’t get it out of my head.”

The shack. He’d interrupted Brock and the soldiers just before my punishment. I’d screamed. The memory of it was enough to make me ill.

“You want to talk about this now?” I asked, incredulous.

He didn’t wait for me to turn back around. Suddenly he was in front of me. He leaned down, a breath away, and stared into my face. Both of his hands gripped my shoulders. I bit back a wince at the pressure.

“What did they do to you?”

“What did they do to me?” I shook out of his hold. “You’re the one who sent me there! Now it matters what happens to someone else when you disappear?”

The betrayal, the resentment, stormed through me. After he’d been drafted, he hadn’t called or returned my letters. He’d sent no word that he was alive, that he was okay. He hadn’t checked in on my mother and me. His promise that he would come back was a lie. Because a soldier had come back, not him. And that soldier had ruined everything.

He faltered back as though I’d shoved him. His hands went to his short hair.

“What made you do it?” I rolled on. “I know you … cared once. About me and Mom. Don’t even try to say you didn’t.” My fists squeezed so tightly the nails bit into my flesh. The angry bruises on my knuckles sent a jolt of pain up my arms. I was laying too much on the line; I could see it in his face, the conflict raging in his eyes. Did I want to know this answer? Or would it crush me when, more than ever, I needed to be strong?

His mouth opened but then shut. His gaze met mine, a kind of wild desperation in it that begged me to read his mind. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t. I didn’t understand. What is it? What are you afraid to tell me?

“What happened?” I asked, this time softer.

His eyes hardened, like glossy stones.

“I don’t know,” he said. “People change, I guess.”

He grabbed the backpack, stuffed with supplies, and headed down the stairs.

The shock doused my rant like a frigid bucket of water.

I laced the new boots as quickly as I could with my trembling hands and followed.

*



“WHAT did you find?” I asked Chase at the bottom of the escalator when my breathing had returned to normal. He was gloomy again; I could almost see the storm clouds over his head, which overrode my hurt and rekindled my irritation. People change? Not good enough. Obviously he was different, but that didn’t explain why he’d arrested us or set us free, it just made me want to kick him again. And it made me want to kick myself even more, because despite his secrets, I was worried. I hadn’t made up that crazed look in his eyes. Something dark was inside of him. Something cancerous. That was what was changing him.

He didn’t want to talk about the past? Fine. Probably better anyway. We needed to focus on finding the checkpoint.

“A first-aid kit and a tent. Some dehydrated food that the rats didn’t get.”

I cringed and shoved the extra folded clothes, along with my reformatory sweater, under the flap. He fastened a bulging sleeping bag around the bottom of the sack without once looking up at me.

“We should go,” he said, throwing the backpack over his shoulders.

I didn’t have a watch, but I guessed that it was probably about eight. The checkpoint was still almost two hours away.

Outside, the parking lot was still vacant. I didn’t know why I thought it might not be. The high clouds from the morning were pressing lower and had grown pewter since we’d entered the store. The air, which smelled faintly of sulfur, had a chilly, electric feel.

I followed Chase around the outside of the building and nearly slammed into him when he stopped abruptly.

My body reeled, sensing the danger from Chase before I saw it for myself.