Burn (Pure #3)(62)

She knows what she misses most of all. Her spear—the weight of it in her hand as she ran through the woods.

She wants a spear.

It’s impossible. Where would she find something that she could make into a spear? Not here. She’d need a stick, long and straight.

But then, wait.

She stands, walks out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind her, and into the nursery.

The crib—with all of its spindles.

A row of spears—if she could get them loose and whittle them with a kitchen knife. How to get them free?

She needs a hammer.

She walks into the living room, turns a circle, sees a lamp with a marble base. She picks it up and weighs it in her hand—heavy enough.

Tonight she will pull her Baby’s Own baby book from her bedside table and write in it:

I crave.

I crave.

I crave.





PARTRIDGE





A BEAUT




Partridge runs his hand down the hallway wall as he makes his way to the living room. He hears Glassings’ raspy voice in his head: Don’t let him know you know. Take him down when he least expects it. Play dumb.

Partridge was never the smart one. Sedge won all the awards in school—athletics and academics both. Partridge was the scrawny little brother with average grades. The comment section of his report card was full of euphemisms for Partridge’s disappointing efforts: If he applied himself a little more…How do you tell Willux that his son is inadequate?

Arvin Weed, on the other hand, was a boy genius. He wanted Partridge’s father dead? He’s on their side? Partridge isn’t sure he can trust Arvin Weed. He’s not sure who he can trust anymore.

He walks into the living room. Beckley is standing by the front door. The doctor has left, but the nurse is at the dining room table, organizing all of Glassings’ medical papers into a folder. Beckley says something to the nurse and she responds, “I’ll go check on him now,” and disappears.

Partridge finds Foresteed sitting in Willux’s favorite armchair—the one no one was ever allowed to sit in. He must have pulled it from the corner of the room, closer to the coffee table.

“That was my father’s favorite chair,” Partridge says. “It’s a beaut, isn’t it?”

Foresteed starts to get up.

“No, no,” Partridge says, “don’t get up.”

Foresteed rubs the leather on the arms. “Your father had good taste.”

Partridge sits in a less regal chair a few feet away. “How are things?” he asks.

“You called the meeting. I assumed there were issues you wanted to discuss.”

“I’ve heard about the attacks on the survivors.”

“We had reason to believe that the wretches needed to be subdued.”

“I want that to stop.”

“What?” Foresteed says, as if he’s hard of hearing.

“I want the subduing to end,” Partridge says slowly.

Foresteed twists in his chair and props a heel on a knee. “I’m in charge of the defense.”

“And I’m in charge of you.”

“Or so it seems.” Foresteed smiles.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Foresteed pulls a small handheld out of his pocket. He points the screen at Partridge. Partridge’s face is on the screen. He’s at the medical center at Mrs. Hollenback’s bedside. Partridge knows what comes next. Foresteed hits play, and Partridge sees a quick clip of his confession.

“What if I told you…” And there’s the pause—the moment Partridge could have chosen to stay silent, but then he says, “I’m a murderer too.”

“You were too young. You didn’t understand what was happening—not like we did. No,” Mrs. Hollenback says.

“You don’t understand,” he says. “I killed him. I’m a murderer.”

Mrs. Hollenback is in the frame too—her gaunt face, her charcoal-blackened mouth. “You killed him?”

And then he says the words that damn him. “I had to stop my father. I had no choice. He was planning to—”

“Turn it off!” Partridge says. He doesn’t want to hear what Mrs. Hollenback says next, but Foresteed is too slow. “Forgive us. Forgive us all,” he hears her say.

“It’s called patricide,” Foresteed says, “and people don’t care for it. Do you think the Dome wants to be ruled by a murderer?”

Partridge feels sick with anger and shame. “You knew, though. You facilitated the whole thing, didn’t you?”

“How could I have predicted that you’d actually go through with it? I mean, killing one’s own father—that requires a deep corruption of the soul. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Maybe you underestimated me.”

“No. You underestimated me, Partridge. If I show this recording to the people, they’ll call for your execution.”

“Is that your plan?”

Foresteed shakes his head and laughs. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from working for your father, it’s the advantages of being the puppeteer, not the puppet.”

Partridge rubs his knuckles. He’d love to punch Foresteed, rip the handheld from his hand, destroy the clip. But he knows that the clip exists in multiple locations. Foresteed is not an idiot. Partridge is powerless now.