Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(40)

Just like Mom said: I’m not their Davy anymore.

I’m something else. Not a daughter they can guide through life. They have no control over what happens to me. The Wainwright Agency decides my fate.


I’m relieved when Mom and Dad leave. Mitchell lingers, sinking down beside me on the bed. He touches my back and I flinch.

“Please. Just go.”

I hear his breath, ragged and sharp beside me, and I can’t even summon enough emotion to care that I might have hurt his feelings with my dismissal. The bed lifts back up as he stands.

The door clicks shut after him and I curl into the tightest ball possible, dragging Dot against my chest. Closing my eyes, I stop resisting the fog rolling into my mind. Latching on to a random tune, I wrap myself in it and slide into sleep, where I don’t have to think about anything anymore.


The first time I wake, Mom’s there, trying to force soup on me. Like I have a cold or the flu. Like it’s just a sick day and I’m home from school.

She holds the spoon to me like I’m a baby—or an invalid—in need of feeding. I motion it away with a moan.

“C’mon. You have to eat, Davy.”

“Not hungry,” I mumble, and roll onto my side, facing the window, my head pounding. After a while, I feel her weight lift from the bed.

“I’ll just leave the soup here.”

I don’t bother telling her to take it. I don’t want to eat. I just want to sleep and wake up in the morning like none of this ever happened. Like everything has been a bad dream and I’m the girl I used to be.


The following morning, Mitchell wakes me, shaking my shoulder gently. “C’mon, Davy. We need to remove your gauze.”

My eyes fly open with a gasp. The burning throb in my neck instantly reminds me of everything that’s happened. His fingers brush the edge of the gauze and I give a little yelp and shoot up, pressing as far back as I can into the headboard.

Mitchell holds his hands up wide in the air like I’m pointing a gun at him. “Hey, Mom showed me the aftercare instruction paper. We should have removed it already. You don’t want to get an infection. We need to clean it.” He holds out his palm. A fat white pill sits there. “And I brought you one of Mom’s pain pills left over from her knee surgery.”

I shake my head and clasp both hands around my neck. “I—I . . . No. Don’t touch me.” I don’t want anyone to touch me.

“Davy—”

“I don’t want to see it.”

He dips his head as though understanding that. “Okay. You don’t have to look at it. Let me take care of it then.”

“No. You don’t understand. I don’t want anyone to see it. Especially you.”

He blinks. “Why not me?”

I punch the mattress beside me. “Because you’re my brother. I don’t want you to see this thing on me!” I motion furiously to my neck.

“Davy, it’s not going to change how I see you.”

“It changes everything!” I hear my words, recognize how shrill my voice sounds, but I don’t care. “Out!” I point to the door.

Mitchell’s lips compress, making him resemble Dad a lot right then, but he doesn’t say anything else. He just rises and turns for the door. I watch him walk away, my heart in my throat, my fingers still clasped around my neck, like he might turn back and try to pry my hands away and see the imprint for himself.

Once the door clicks shut, I slide back down on the bed, my fingers loosely clinging to my throat, still holding my neck as if I can somehow hide what’s there. Cover it up so that no one can ever see it. Even me.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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Imprinting falls under the purview of the State. No civilians or local police agencies may impede a representative operating at the behest of the Wainwright Agency. . . .


—Article 13B of the Wainwright Act





FIFTEEN




I DOZE IN AND OUT ALL DAY. THE GAUZE AT MY NECK begins to itch and chafe terribly. It stings with a heat that seems to come from beneath the skin, but I still can’t bring myself to remove it. The fear of infection serves as no motivator.

I just can’t look at it. And neither can anyone else.

I stare at the fan blades whirring above me. The spinning slats hypnotize me, matching the rhythm of the song humming softly from my mouth. Lyrics escape my chapped lips, practically soundless on the air. Even with the pulsing warmth in my neck, I’m cold. Goose bumps break out over my arms, but I can’t will myself to move. Even to cover up. The blanket I kicked off in my sleep is wadded at the foot of the bed. I shiver, letting the song in my head and the whirring fan lull me.

A knock sounds at my door.

I don’t say anything, waiting for them to go away. Mom checked on me when she got home an hour ago. Like Mitchell, she tried to talk me into removing the bandage. She finally left when it became clear I wasn’t in a talking mood. Nor was I inclined to remove the gauze from my throat.

Idly, I wonder if I’ll ever be in a talking mood again. The prospect of staying here in this bed forever seems alluring.