The Hearts We Sold(57)

The screen flickered and up came an image of smoking remnants—a building, Dee thought. Or what was left of it. It looked as though a bomb had gone off, ripped the structure to shreds and tossed the cars about. Then the image went back to that of the news reporter. The words flashed beneath his face, as they always did in urgent news reports: SEATTLE NEIGHBORHOOD STRUCK BY UNKNOWN EXPLOSION.

“The neighboring apartment buildings have been evacuated,” continued the man, “but we are still unsure as to how many people were affected by the blast. In the meantime…”

But she was no longer listening to the man’s words. She dropped the chopsticks and the takeout carton, scrambled across the bed, and gaped at the screen.

There were many people staring at the smoking building, even as the police were trying to ward them away. And among the crowd stood a man. A man with dark hair, beautiful features, and an umbrella tucked beneath his arm.





TWENTY-SEVEN


D ee returned to a world both changed and unchanged.

Unchanged, because when she finally powered up her phone, there were three voice mails waiting for her.

The first two were from her mother. Her voice was carefully neutral, asking if she would like to come home for a Sunday dinner a week from that day. There was a shiver in her voice, as if she were holding back her own distress.

The last voice mail was from her father. He asked if she knew where the extra vacuum bags were, where she had put them. There was no mention of the fight, no allusion to any conflict—likely, he didn’t even remember it had occurred.

Unchanged.

Definitely unchanged.

But some things had changed.

Changed because she had not slept last night—she was too busy looking up news of the explosion in Seattle, texting Cora about it. Cora replied with a simple No idea and left it at that. James was more willing to talk it out with her—and they settled on one rather uncomfortable conclusion.

Something had gone wrong. With the voids, with the demons—otherwise, why would the Daemon have bothered to stick around? “He wouldn’t have been there if it was just an accident,” said James darkly, and Dee couldn’t disagree.

And the world was also changed, because when they pulled up at her dorm, there was a moment of slightly awkward silence between her and James. She hesitated, unsure of what to expect. This was it—the last few seconds of her Not-Life. The moment she opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk, things would go back to normal. Or what passed for normal these days.

So she did one last reckless thing.

She leaned in, pressed a kiss to his cheek. His skin was soft, his stubble rasped against her lips. He held very still, as if not wanting to scare her off. “Thank you for everything,” she told him, before she opened the car door and stepped into her real life.

When she walked into her dorm, Gremma was waiting. She had a cup in hand, offering coffee in exchange for an explanation. Dee had little energy to make up stories, so she simply said that she couldn’t stand the thought of attending school, so she’d begun her weekend early. With James. The boy she’d disappeared with from the art gallery. It was a flimsy excuse, even for Dee.

Gremma eyed her. “You’re not telling me everything,” she said. Not in an accusing way, but more matter-of-fact.

“No, I’m not,” Dee agreed.

A moment’s pause.

“This has to do with your drug running, doesn’t it?” asked Gremma.

Dee heaved an exasperated sigh. “For the last time, I am not a drug runner.”

Gremma narrowed her eyes, her painted green nails thrumming impatiently on her desk. “Organ harvester?”

“Yes,” said Dee, straight-faced. “I am an organ harvester. You have gotten the truth out of me. Can I have the latte now?”

Gremma’s scowl never lessened, but she handed the coffee over. “You’ve always been hard to read,” she said. “I mean, I know you’re a liar. You’ve always been a good liar. But you’re getting better at it and it’s driving me crazy.”

Dee paused, the coffee halfway to her mouth. Those words coming from anyone else would have sounded like an insult—but Gremma sounded almost admiring, almost fond. The way she spoke about one of her unsolved puzzles.

“I am not a liar.” Dee sipped the coffee.

“Only liars say that,” replied Gremma. “People lie. It’s what they do. But it’s about little stuff, like homework and shit. But you—you hide everything. I’ve never been inside your house.”

“I’ve never been inside yours,” Dee protested.

“My parents live in Seattle.” Gremma gave her a measured look. “Yours live less than ten miles away. But I know far less about you than you do about me. I didn’t even know you were Latino until I saw your last name on a student form. I thought you were just really tan or something.”

“Half Latino,” said Dee. “On my dad’s side.”

“See,” said Gremma. “I didn’t even know that.” She tilted her head, eyeing Dee. “You never talk about anything in particular—you’ve mastered the art of small talk. And for the most part, I like it. I like puzzles. But now you’re running around with homeless guys—”

“He is not actually homeless. You know that. You’ve seen his apartment.”