Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(20)

Fantastic. The back of my neck itches, the skin crawling as if something swarms beneath it. I look down quickly, stare at the paper on my desk, eyes feverishly moving, scanning the blur of words. I expect for him to move in. Like the predator he is. Like all of us in this room are supposed to be. Only I’m not. My being here is a mistake. I’m not like them at all. Maybe if I was, I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable. So afraid.

Brockman leaves us. The door clangs. I can hear Gil and Coco talking in low voices. I guess they’ve begun to discuss the assignment. I toy with the corner of the paper, waiting for him.

He never comes.

Finally, I take a breath and stand, pen and paper in hand. As though he senses me, he lifts his head. His eyes settle on me, his expression mild, empty. How does he do that? How does he look as though there is nothing going on behind the fa?ade? Not a dark thought . . . not a thought at all. A blank slate.

Squaring my shoulders, I approach and drop into the chair before him, turning so that we’re facing each other.

I flex my fingers very deliberately around the paper so that it crinkles. “I guess we have to do this.”

“I guess so.” His deep voice washes over me, and I realize I’ve hardly ever heard him speak. Except when he called me “princess” in Brockman’s office. It’s deeper than I expect. It makes him seem older somehow.

Clearing my throat, I force myself to read the work sheet. Difficult, considering he doesn’t do the same. Instead, he continues to watch me with those absorbing eyes. Finally, I process the instructions. Dread sinks likes rocks in the bottom of my stomach.

“We have to interview each other.” My lips move numbly. “Write each other’s biographies.”

“Uh-huh.” His lips twist. Almost a smile but not quite.

Why would the Wainwright Agency want us to do this type of exercise? What’s the point?

As if he can read my mind, he says, “They’re trying to train us in humanity. You know. Because we obviously lack empathy for others,” he says this flatly with no inflection, and I can’t tell if he’s joking.

I wave to the Cage we’re trapped inside. “Then maybe they shouldn’t treat us like animals in a zoo.”

He angles his head, staring at me intently, his face that perpetual blank slate. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. He probably thinks that I’m getting bent out of shape over nothing. This is the life he’s accustomed to, after all. My gaze strays to the tattoo on his neck, before jerking quickly away. I don’t want him to see me looking at it.

“Okay.” I suck in a breath. “You want me to start?”

“Sure.”

“Name?”

“Sean.”

“Sean?” I prompt even though I know his last name.

This time he actually smiles, and I know he’s amused because I’m taking this so seriously. “Sean,” he supplies.

I go through the rest. Birthplace. Birth date.

“Parents’ names?”

“My mother’s name was Cecily O’Rourke.”

Was. My pen hesitates for a second before scrawling her name down. “Father?”

“Don’t know.”

I try to show no reaction at his blunt response, but it takes me a moment to gather my thoughts and move to the next question. Who doesn’t know the name of their own father?

“Siblings?”

“None.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Just foster ones—”

“Oh?” It’s something, and I’m beginning to suspect there’s not a lot he’s going to volunteer. I’m sure there’s a lot more to him . . . more than I’ll ever know. More than he lets anyone know. But for now, I need to fill out this work sheet with something. Even if it’s just empty facts. “So you live with foster parents? What are their names? How long have you been with them?”

I don’t look up from my notes, but I feel his eyes on me.

“I have a foster mother. Martha Delaney. She’s taken in five of us. At least the last time I counted.”

A joke. I didn’t think he had a sense of humor.

I nod, still writing. “Uh-huh.” Cocking my head, I read the next question: “What’s your favorite hobby?” I try not to cringe at the totally inane question. Does this guy have a hobby? He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who knits or plays the violin. Maybe he likes video games. The zombie-killer kind. Those are plenty violent.

He leans forward, both his arms relaxed on his desk. His fingers lightly tap the surface, just at the tips. “No hobbies.”

“Something you do in your free time . . . something you enjoy . . .”

“I know the definition of ‘hobby,’” he replies, and I feel justifiably dumb.

“Of course.” I scrawl N/A next to the question.

“I have a job . . . but I wouldn’t call washing dishes at the Golden Palace six nights a week a hobby.”

Before I can think, I ask, “Then why do you do it?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. I know this immediately. I see that as his features harden, looking even more carved, more like granite. I don’t have time to explain what I meant, which was: Why does he work that particular job?

“God, you’re so sheltered, aren’t you? It’s how I make a living. Martha isn’t big on allowances. She puts a roof over our heads, cooks and feeds us, and collects a state check for fostering six kids no one else wants. There’s not a lot left over after the bills are paid.” He smiles enough to reveal teeth. Even and startling white against his complexion.