Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(62)

Standing, I deliberately avoid looking at Sean. Sabine rises beside me, her hands tight around the edges of her tray.

Turning, I move to the line where everyone waits to dump their trash. Sean and Gil follow. I can feel their presence behind me, hear the low murmur of their voices.

I feel eyes on me. And it’s not Sean and Gil looking at me. It’s everyone watching everyone, sizing each other up, probably wondering who’s going to be the first to crack in this place and let their killer out.





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TWENTY-THREE




AFTER AN HOUR AND A HALF OF SPEED AND AGILITY drills, we’re released. It’s Independent Study, so this is our time to work on areas where we need particular improvement. For me, the list feels endless. I could go to the firing range and practice shooting. I could work in the lab with Gil. We all need above average programming and tech knowledge. There’s also a room with musical instruments for me to practice. They don’t want me to get rusty. Although that’s the area I’m least worried about.

Or I could just work out. That’s probably where I need the most help . . . building my strength. Not being so weak.

Releasing a great gust of breath, I drag a hand through my hair, tugging my ponytail, and collapse on the bed. It’s tempting to not get up. Only I must. I don’t want to fall behind. I can’t. The threat of being sent to a detention camp—or worse—is there, hanging over me like a dark cloud.

With a moan, I pull myself up off the bed and drop to the floor and start doing push-ups. Even though my muscles are shot and my limbs feel like pudding, I lower myself to the ground, making sure my nose brushes the floor. I have a flash of Zac doing this in my bedroom. A lifetime ago. Trying to impress me, I’m sure, and it worked, every time. I remember how awed I’d been that he could make it look easy even after he completed fifty.

With a pained grunt, I push myself. Up and down, up and down. Again and again, until my body trembles with exertion. I pass fifty.

And keep going. Because I won’t be a target. I won’t be the puny one that needs Sean and Gil looking out for me. If I’m that person, I’ll never make it in this program. I’ll never be the person I’m meant to be.

I’ll be the mindless monster the DNA test says I am.

And that can’t be right. I’m not that.

I’m not.


“Tell me about yourself, Davy.”

My attention snaps to the therapist. She sits several seats to my left, about halfway down in the middle of our circle. Gil is to my right and Sean to my immediate left. His hand holds his ankle across his knee.

I’d been staring at that broad hand ever since we sat down. The light spattering of gold hairs on the back. The veins beneath the tanned flesh. It’s strong and capable, tempting me to put my trust in him. Except I have to be strong in my own right, too. Allies are well and good, but I can’t be weak, either.

The counselor looks at me, waiting.

I’m the first person in Conditioning she’s addressed and this catches me off guard since there are twelve of us in the circle. I guess I thought I’d get to hear others talk first. They call this Conditioning, but it’s just group therapy.

The session is part of our training, and I don’t know what to do. I haven’t figured out what it is they want to hear. I want to give them what they want so I can get their seal of approval and start leading a normal life again. Or close to normal anyway.

Moistening my lips, I study her carefully. The serene expression. The flawless skin. It looks like she’s never stepped in the sun.

I need to say the right thing. I worry my bottom lip with my teeth. She stares at me patiently.

Worse than her stare are the eleven others, all watching, waiting. I slide my gaze to Sean and Gil, relieved that we managed to go to Conditioning together—and then feel annoyed at myself. My overwhelming relief doesn’t say much for my independence. I know everyone thinks of us as friends—a clique. Sabine, too. My shadow. Except right now. She got stuck in another Conditioning session. I’ve felt the eyes on us, measuring, sorting us into whatever category they think it is we belong in. Other cliques have started to form. Only a random few keep to themselves.

I say dumbly, “I’m from Texas.”

The therapist looks at me with disappointment. She expects more.

Zoe yawns and stretches her arms above her head. Her T-shirt stretches taut over small, bra-free breasts, revealing a sliver of flat belly.

Several of the boys watch the redhead, varying expressions on their faces. Hunger. Contempt. She drops her arms, a catlike smile on her makeup-free face. She wiggles in her chair as if settling in and trying to get even more comfortable. The action is inherently satisfied. She curls a finger around a bright red strand, pleased at the attention she’s getting.