Deviation (Clone Chronicles #2)(49)

There is a millisecond’s worth of silence and then Titus barks, “Come on.” He whirls and heads back down the hall, rapidly punching buttons into his phone as he walks.

I hurry to keep pace, my body humming with the nervous energy of even a victory this small. Titus stops in front of a door we haven’t yet visited and swipes his card. It beeps to allow entry and we file through.

It’s another hallway, this one long and narrow and lined with large windows. All of them are dark or covered by heavy curtains. A few have a strange tint to the glass and I wonder if they are one-way windows, like the ones Titus uses to observe his cells at home. What’s kept back here that would need anonymous viewing?

Halfway down, goose bumps break out over my arms and back and I falter. The heavy curtains covering the window beside me are drab and thick, completely obscuring whatever’s on the other side. As I stare at it, a shell of a thought lodges at the edges of my awareness. Not whole or even capable of leaving behind an explanation before it vanishes completely.

I blink and wait. When it doesn’t return, I resume my walk.

At end of the hall, I follow Titus inside a darkened room. The air is stale, as if this space isn’t used often. A light is switched on, revealing a bank of monitors like the ones I saw in the security booth earlier. I scan them, excited to see movement, faces. Signs of life downstairs. I quickly recognize the rooms displayed and calculate the schedule based on the clock above the monitors.

My attention is drawn to a view of the gym.

A burly woman with a frizzy bun stands with arms crossed at the door. Her form takes up the entire frame. I recognize her as the sour-faced guard with quick eyes and excellent hearing. She was always fussing at us to keep quiet and move on when Ida would dawdle. I move on, scanning for a better view.

On the next monitor, it is the same area from a different angle. Tennis matches are being played, the pop of the ball silent as opponents volley it back and forth over the fraying nets. I search the faces intently for someone familiar.

There. All the way in the back, on the same court we shared my last day, Ida serves. She wears an easy smile as she watches Lonnie lunge and miss the return. My stomach lurches into my throat. I can’t look away or breathe or speak. A sharp pain pricks the very center of my chest.

They are alive. And they are still here, still safe.

Lonnie retrieves the missed ball. She bends down and scoops it up, cupping it in her palm while she jogs back to the serving position. Ida says something I can’t make out on the silent monitor. Lonnie snaps back some retort. Ida rolls her eyes and Lonnie raises the ball to serve.

I take a step closer to the monitor, inspecting Lonnie’s forearm. “What is that?”

“What?” Titus asks. He sounds distracted. I turn back to find him engrossed in whatever he’s typing into his phone.

“That,” I say, pointing to the oversized purple mark on Lonnie’s exposed forearm. “She has a giant bruise.”

“I can’t be held responsible for every time she bumps into a wall,” Titus says.

I don’t respond, because he’s right—but Lonnie’s not accident-prone. Ida maybe, but not Lonnie. And I could’ve sworn there’d been a small incision at the center of the bruise. Whatever caused it had been deliberate. Still, she is alive and seems well. I continue to watch them as they take turns returning the ball over the net or missing it and serving a fresh volley. They are teasing and friendly with each other, but there’s something else. A shadow under their eyes that wasn’t there before I left. Every so often, Ida glances over at something I can’t see.

I wonder if it’s the burly woman standing watch at the door, but I can’t be sure. It’s strange. We’ve never been concerned with our guards. They don’t mess with us except to keep us on schedule, always moving to the next activity. Idle hands are not allowed in the City. So why does Ida seem so worried underneath her cheerful demeanor?

“Can you turn the sound on?” I ask without looking away from the monitor.

“No.”

My shoulders sag. I debate on pressing him on it but a sharp beep interrupts.

“Our time is up,” Titus announces. He frowns at his phone screen before pocketing it and opening the door to signal our departure. Alton and Deitrich exit but I hesitate, wanting to soak in the sight of my two friends as long as I can. I know it’s a very real possibility I will never seem them again. That the memory of them playing tennis will be the last thing I see before I—

“Raven,” Titus snaps.

I jump and he flips the switch, plunging the room into darkness. My shoulders turn rigid as I turn and follow him out.

Alton and Detrich are already halfway down the hall. Titus strides quickly to catch up with them and they fall into hushed conversation with Titus checking his phone every third sentence. Something has happened. I don’t even want to know what. I am numb after the emotional roller coaster of this night. My feet move slow, matching my thoughts, and I taste misery like a clove of garlic in my throat.

Until tonight, I thought death was the end. I imagined myself fading into nothingness as the memory of me is replaced by the newness of the next product in the assembly line. The few I care about—that care about me—would either forget me with the passage of time or worse, die and fade as well. But now, after the gruesome scene Titus has shown me, I know there is a worse fate that awaits. To be reduced to nothing but a singular limb, an organ in a specimen jar, a piece of my physical body on display for science, remembered solely by the color of the inside of my flesh—it’s worse than the miserable imaginings that have haunted me my entire life. I want to vomit. All over Titus and his shiny black Stacy Adams footwear.