Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(68)

For a moment, I can only stare. Take in the face. The straggly dark blonde hair. The notably darker eyes, a tawny brown with faint smudges of blue underneath. Twin bruises. And then there’s the ink band circling my neck.

Who is this girl? The well-bred girl who sang opera and carefully styled her hair every morning so that it looked artfully messy is gone. As good as dead. Strangely enough, she has to be if I want to survive.

Shaking off morbid thoughts, I quickly braid my hair into one long rope, not even bothering to tie the end. I let it hang down my back as I quickly change into shorts and a cotton T-shirt.

Sabine enters the bathroom. “Hey,” she murmurs, propping a narrow hip against the bathroom sink. “You missed dinner.”

“Yeah. Not that hungry.”

“You okay?” Her gaze travels my face. “Saw what happened during drills.”

“Looks worse than it is. They gave me a couple Tylenol. I should be fine tomorrow.”

Her nostrils flare. “You smell nice. Is that the soap they gave us?”

“Uh, no.” I fumble for my bath gel. “It’s this. Want to use it?”

She takes the bottle, looking it over as if it’s vastly interesting. “Thanks.” She looks up at me, her gaze probing, hopeful. “It’s pretty nice here. I mean, we have it good. Right?”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

“Is that the only alternative then? A detention camp?” She toys with the cap, glancing up at me and then looking back down. “We could run away . . . maybe go to Mexico. I hear that’s where lots of carriers are heading. They don’t screen over there.”

We? I’m not sure if she’s speaking in the hypothetical or not, but I feel the need to squash the notion of “us.” At least when referring to the possibility of running away. I look around nervously, as though we might be overheard by some invisible person.

“How? How would we get there? We have no transportation. No money.” I point to my neck. “I wouldn’t make it into the next town.”

She nods, her wan expression all the more stark with the yellowish bruises on her narrow face. “I know. I heard security at the border is really tough. My father looked into it. He might have risked it, ran with me . . . but he was worried about the rest of the family.” She shrugs as if it’s okay that her father chose the welfare of his other children over her.

“Our best shot is sticking it out here.”

She waves at me. “That might be easier for you than me.”

“Hey. Have you seen me run? And what are you talking about? You speak three languages. They want to keep you around, too.”

She nods again, still looking miserable. “I just miss my family.”

“I know, but we’ll probably see them again after we finish here.”

“You think so?”

I smile encouragingly, unable to bring myself to say an outright yes. I don’t want to make her that promise. I couldn’t.

“You’re lucky you have those guys. Sean and Gil. I wish I came here with someone.”

My smile falters. “Yeah.” Suddenly, I feel wrong for being so angry with Sean. What was I going to do? Ask him not to care? To ignore me and not lift a finger if I got into trouble? That’s not him. Ever since I met him in the Cage, he’s proven himself to be the type who helps others. Gil. Me. He tried to help Coco, only she didn’t want it. Well, I’m not Coco. I need people. Friends. Sean.

Snapping my attention back to Sabine, I squeeze her arm. “You have me now.”

Smiling, she ducks her head and studies the bottle of shower gel again. “I think I’m going to try this now. I’ll bring it back when I’m done.”

“Take your time.” Turning, I leave the bathroom.


I’m alone during Independent Study, practicing guitar in a room on the second floor. It’s a beautiful instrument. Solid, flamed maple wood. Triple-bound body inlaid with intricate rosettes. My fingers move over the strings, strumming, testing the sweet, pure sound.

In the distance, I can hear pops from the firing range. Occasionally, voices drift from the corridor outside, other carriers or the guard talking on his radio to someone. Next door, an instructor teaches Spanish to a handful of students. Her muffled words carry through the wall.

I already spent an hour on the piano. Several other instruments occupy the room. A violin and bass. An electric guitar with the requisite amp. It’s my very own music room. I guess it makes me feel better . . . knowing they went to so much trouble for me alone. They must really want me to succeed. But that’s not the only reason it makes me feel better. Losing myself in music is a familiar comfort, a reminder of what I was.

Still, being in here, indulging like this makes me feel guilty. I should be running or working out in the weight room during this time. Especially after yesterday. I haven’t forgotten how to play or sing. It’s imbedded in my DNA. Among other things. A year-long break from the piano, and I would still be able to play it. That’s what they don’t get about me. No one taught me when I was three how to play. I just knew.

I don’t have a choice though. Dusty said I had to spend independent study in here.

My fingers move, falling into their own rhythm. A song buried somewhere in my subconscious stirs within me. Without deliberation, the smooth, smoky chords of an old Johnny Cash song come to me. I slide into it, humming the lyrics of “Hurt” lightly. Closing my eyes, I lose myself in the song, letting the words sweep through me and flow from my lips. “If I could start again, a million miles away, I would keep myself, I would find a way. . . .”