Forged(40)

“December?” Emma squints at me.

“She looked just like you, Emma. Everything was identical. Her voice and memories and the way she only smiled halfway. She was good with people, especially Aiden. That kid loved you. Sammy, too.”

“Sammy?” She takes a step away from me. “He loved . . . Is that why he’s been . . . ?”

“The point is I’m over it, Emma. I told your Forgery the same thing, and I’m sorry you’re only just hearing it now.”

“You told her, and then she handed you to the Order? No wonder you picked Blaine.”

“Don’t do that,” I say. “It was awful what happened on the Compound, but it had nothing to do with your Forgery, or Craw, or . . .” I sigh, defeated. “He was my brother, Emma. My twin.”

“And I didn’t outrank him. I get it,” she says with a frown. “Good thing it wasn’t Blaine and her in that room.” She tilts her head in the direction Bree walked off. “That would have been a fun choice, huh?”

“That’s not fair, Emma.”

“Do you love her?” she asks. Her brows raise expectantly, and the thought of lying is exhausting. Emma is smart. She already sees the truth, or at least suspects it.

“Yeah,” I say after a moment. “I do.”

“Well, you thought you loved me once, too, so be careful.”

I’ve never seen this side of Emma before, so vindictive. The previous night resurfaces—throwing my words at Bree, wanting her to hurt because I did—and I decide this isn’t really Emma. It’s Emma overloaded with grief, drowning in it.


Maybe she’s right to never forgive me. Maybe we’re beyond mending. I firmly believe that time can change anything, but even a distant friendship between us seems impossible right now, and that’s so tragically depressing I can feel the ache like a sunburn on my skin.

“I miss him,” I tell her. “I always will. But I am glad you’re okay. I never wanted you hurt.”

“Somehow, it’s really hard for me to believe that.”

She disappears into her room and slams the door.


It’s an overcast morning, threatening storms by the taste of the air. I head for the bookshop, hoping to catch Harvey and Clipper at work. I’m still not sure what their plan is, but I know aiding them will be the best use of my time. Sammy was already hard at work coaxing Emma from her room when I bailed—not that I expected her to open the door for me—and Bree was bound to return with nothing but a list of chores.

The walk to the hotel seemed straightforward when Adam guided us last night, but as I try to backtrack under the weak morning sunlight, everything looks different. I’m about to scramble up a gutter and take the roofs toward shore when I spot a dark-suited figure crossing the alley ahead.

My heart rate spikes, and I dart behind the nearest chimney, leaning into the building’s facade. I wait a moment, then cautiously peer around the brick. No Order member. Just a man in a shabby jacket picking through an overflowing garbage can. I clench and unclench my fists. Everything with the Compound has me wound so tight that I see one Pine Ridge citizen wearing dark clothes and assume it’s the enemy.

I shake my head and grab hold of a gutter. With the help of a windowsill and footholds in the adjacent chimney, I make my way to the roof. Then I hop a few narrow alleys, moving between buildings until I get my bearings. By the time I finally arrive at the bookshop it’s drizzling.

Charlie is behind the counter, devouring another novel, and Badger is complaining about spies. He’s now convinced that every single person working for him is one.

“Are Harvey and Clipper here?” I ask when Badger stops ranting long enough for me to get a word in.

“In the back.” Charlie shakes a thumb over his shoulder, barely glancing up from his read. A gunshot from somewhere in the streets shocks us both. “What the—?”

I race for the nearest window, but Badger’s already claimed it. I dart to the second and battle Charlie for a vantage point.

A bit farther up the street, a small group of children stands rigid with shock. Two men tower over them, dressed in dark uniforms, one with his weapon pointed toward the sky. There is no mistaking these men for civilians.

The Order member who fired the warning shot kicks the ball the children have been playing with. Their eyes follow it as it bounces down the street, but they don’t dare move.

The Order member says something we can’t hear.

The children stand a little taller.

Another demand is made, and when the children remain stoic, the nearest is backhanded. A man runs from a nearby building—maybe the child’s father. He pulls the shaking boy to his feet, checks his face, then wheels on the Order members.

I want to tell him not to shout, but he already is. I want to warn him not to retaliate, but his fist is already flying.

A gun is drawn, a blast fired, and the man is on the ground.

The children stare. One starts to cry.

The sprinkling drizzle becomes a steady rain.

The Order member holds out a piece of paper and snarls a threat we can’t make out. I know what’s on that paper though. My face. Or Harvey’s. Someone they want.

A trembling child raises a hand and points toward the bookshop.

We step away from the windows.

“Get them out,” Badger says, and draws his handgun.