Breaking Point (Article 5 #2)(51)

Someone knocked, and I jumped up, stuffing my legs into the borrowed jeans.

“Just a second!” I called, but Cara was already forcing her way in. Apparently the trash can wasn’t enough of a hint that I’d wanted some privacy.

“Girls only,” she called over her shoulder to whoever waited behind, then slammed the door. “What do you got there?” she asked, pointing to the fist I’d clenched to my chest.

“Oh.” I opened my hand reluctantly. “Just something I found.”

Cara’s mouth rounded in surprise.

“Where’d you get that?”

I shrugged, and when my hand moved, her eyes followed.

“Riggins thought it was you,” she said in a strange voice. “He told me, at the garage in Knoxville. After you went missing on the mission.”

I winced. “Yeah, I know.” He’d died thinking it was me.

“He says you’ve gone missing a lot.”

I balked at that. She went missing a lot. Chase and I had been pulled apart in the Square during the attack, but she’d been separated from Lincoln and Houston as well. And yet no one, not even paranoid Riggins, questioned her whereabouts.

She plucked the bullet from my palm, holding it close to her body as she admired it. Again I considered how much larger it was than the standard rounds the resistance and the soldiers used.

“Why aren’t you at the safe house?” I asked, something inside telling me to tread carefully. “I thought you said Sisters could get through the highway lockdown.”

She turned her hips, still mesmerized by the cartridge. Her blue woolen skirt fanned from side to side.

“Looks like I was wrong.”

“I’m serious,” I said. “Sarah and that family with the baby needed a doctor. Did they get caught?”

Her tongue skimmed along the edge of her teeth. “Are you suggesting I jumped ship?”

My blood heated. “You didn’t exactly stick around to help when the motel was burning to the ground.”

She laughed, but it felt forced. “Self-preservation. Not all of us are martyrs.”

“If it was self-preservation, what were you doing talking to that soldier?” I pictured her standing before the flames, the man in uniform urging her to back up.

For a moment she seemed confused, and then shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe he was looking for a date.”

“Why can’t you just answer the question?”

She smiled coldly, eyes like blue crystals. “Look, the soldier at the fire thought I was a Sister, and asked me to help clear the area. As for Tubman, we made it to the roadblock and saw a sign that only FBR would be allowed past. I bailed before anyone saw me. But since you’re so concerned about your precious little party favor, relax. I hid off the side of the highway and watched Tubman drive that FBR truck straight through.”

I was relieved, but no less irritated. “Why do you have to cut her down like that?”

Her look turned to exasperation as she began to disrobe.

“Please. Did you see her? She had it coming. You can’t put wrapping paper on a present and expect no one to rip it off.”

“You’re blaming her?”

“I would if she wore that dress to a social.”

A social. That was what Sarah had called it, too, back in Tent City. A party for all the lonely soldiers who’d dedicated themselves to the cause.

I kept my arms pinned to my sides so I didn’t throttle her. Blaming Sarah for what others had done to her was like saying my mother deserved death because she’d broken a Statute. Like saying Billy’s mom had been right in selling her own son for cash.

She pulled off her Sisters of Salvation blouse, and as she slipped into a faded black sweatshirt, I caught sight of three parallel scars just below her collarbone—scars not unlike those I had given Tucker. She made a point of quickly hiding them, and despite myself, I suddenly found myself feeling sorry for her. Apparently she wasn’t made of steel. Someone, at some point, had been able to hurt her.

“Hey,” she said as I placed my hand on the door in preparation to leave. “Thank you. For what you’ve done.”

I turned back to face her, surprised by the smallness in her voice. It took a full beat to realize what she was talking about, and when I did I nearly groaned.

“Cara, Riggins was wrong. I’m not who he thought I was. I didn’t shoot anybody.”

“I know,” she said. But I wasn’t sure she believed me.

I had more important reasons to be on the defensive. I gathered my clothes and returned to the factory floor, and Tucker Morris.

*

WHEN I emerged, Chase was leaning against the wall outside the door, arms crossed, scowling across the station at the Horizons truck. I smoothed down the sweatshirt and cuffed the ends of the pants four times before they finally reached my heels. I’d forgotten my arms were still smeared with dried blood and soot, and while I examined them he combed a tentative hand through my hair. Instinct had me leaning into his touch, but I frowned when he revealed a fistful of ash. I would have given my next meal for a shower.

“Billy’s checking the mainframe for new arrests,” he said, crossing his arms again as Tucker’s shadow appeared in the back of the truck.

“Has he found anything yet?” It seemed callous, but if Wallace hadn’t made it out of Knoxville, I hoped he’d gone down with the Wayland Inn. I knew what awaited him in the holding cells should he have been captured.