Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)(46)
She pauses and silence permeates the room as she goes over and sits on the edge of the bed. “There are no drugs. I only knew who Drew was because he was in one of my classes. I’ve never even talked to him before.”
When she finally looks up at me, the horror in her eyes mixes with sheer determination and deep resignation. “They’re going to shred me—violently and mercilessly—because I don’t have what I said I did. But I have no other recourse, Ryder. I’m going to turn myself over to them to save my sister. You need to understand that, whatever strategies you’re devising, I won’t do anything, and I mean anything, to risk or jeopardize her.”
I nod before I come over and sit beside her. “I get it.”
“Now that you have that information, I’d completely understand if you pulled out. Because it comes down to the simple fact that I have a death sentence—and I can’t defy death forever.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” I stand resolute and empty the contents of the bags onto the small table. “I picked you up some new clothes since you were wearing that when you got away from your detail. You’ll put them on when we leave later. I also got us both masks.” I set the elegant masquerade masks onto the table. “We have to blend into the crowd and be unrecognizable to law enforcement.”
Farrington comes over and traces her delicate fingers over the edge of the purple mask. “It’s beautiful.” It is. It’s decorated with glitter flourishes and rhinestones of various colors. “I was supposed to come here for the party with a group of my friends, and now I’m never going to see them again.”
“Who are your friends?” I ask in an effort to distract her from her overwhelming fear.
“Tobi and Veronica. We’re roomies too. We went to the same high school together and have been best friends since grade school.” Her hand drops to her side. “That’s rare you know, to have such friendships. I’ve been lucky.”
“Tell me about your little sister.”
She fills her lungs with air, and holds the breath for a moment before she lets it slowly release. “Lemy is seven years old. She has a language disorder and doesn’t understand simple instructions like go get your shoes, or directions like over and under. Her real name is Reagan.” Farrington smiles. “We call her Lemy because when she was three the only way we could get her to stop crying was to promise her her favorite drink—lemonade. She loved it so much she referred to herself as Lemy. She was a late talker and had never even said her name before then. ‘Lemy, lemy!’ she’d say with a giggle when we put some in her sippy cup. She’s never used her given name to this day, and she can’t differentiate between our names—Rachel and Reagan. When we used to try to explain that Reagan is her name, she’d say no, point to me and say, ‘Waychul,’ then to herself and say, ‘Lemy.’”
Her joy talking about Lemy disappears. “She won’t know what to do when Miguel lets her off the streetcar—if he does. She won’t be able to talk to anyone—no one will understand her—everything she says is sort of garbled and can only be translated by me or my mom. She’ll be terrified, too, and won’t know what to do in the middle of thousands of people in the dark, all of them in costumes.”
Farrington’s breath starts to labor. “Jesus, she can’t just be released into the middle of the city! You can’t let that happen!” She grabs my arms. “Whatever happens, you have to make sure she’s the priority! Promise me, no matter what happens, you’ll keep my little sister safe.”
“I’ll keep you both safe.”
“But if comes down to a choice, and you have to choose between her or me—promise me you’ll save her.”
I hesitate for a second.
“PROMISE ME!”
“I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” It’s a warning. “When my dad died, my mom and I were devastated. She stayed in a depressed stupor for almost two years, and I sank myself into academics. Then she had a one-night stand and got pregnant with Lemy. She felt like the baby was a gift from my dad. Lemy was a little miracle—she saved us both—she brought joy and happiness back. She made us strong again. She gave us something to live for and hold on to.”
“Even your course of study—”
“All about her,” Farrington confirms. “What about you, Ryder? What’s your story?”
“There isn’t much to tell.” I change direction and go back to arranging the rest of the supplies.
“I highly doubt that, Ryder Axton.” Farrington calls me on it. “You’re a walking shrine. You seem to know everything, you have incredibly honed powers of deductive reasoning and situational awareness, you’re trained like a soldier, and . . . yeah, must not be much to tell.” That last bit comes out with a dose of contempt.
“I don’t . . . talk a lot, Farrington.”
“You talk plenty.”
“There are circumstances better left in the past.”
“But you chose to scar your body with ink so you can be reminded every moment of every day of exactly what happened. And maybe half of your bravado is actually trying to make up for something you weren’t able to succeed at.” Her voice is like a whip. “Never mind, it’s my fault. It’s none of my f*cking business, and I don’t know why I thought I even had the right to ask you. How audacious of me—I forget that when you ask me about myself, it’s not to get to know me—which by the way we’re running out of time in that department—it’s really just to figure out your next move.”