The Replaced(47)

I pressed my hand to the mirror, wondering, too, where Simon and the others were right now. And if they’d been here, in this exact place, before me. Had we really come all this way only to be taken captive?

I jumped, hastily lowering my hand, when the door opened behind me. I expected to see Buzz Cut come marching in. Only this time, there was another girl coming inside, carrying a plate covered with a red-and-white-checked napkin. Buzz Cut was still there, standing vigilantly on the other side of the door, but she stayed where she was. The new girl gave a single nod to Buzz Cut, then pushed the door closed with her hip.

I watched expectantly. This new girl wasn’t like Buzz Cut, who looked like she wanted to be one of the boys. Her long hair was dark and shiny, and was pulled away from her bronzed skin, and her brown eyes held me captive as she watched me back. Her skintight jeans showed off her lean legs, and even with her combat boots, she managed to look as if she’d been peeled straight from the pages of Vogue.

She kept a considerate distance, as if to say I was calling the shots, rather than the other way around. When she pulled back the corner of the napkin, revealing a plate of neatly arranged apple slices, clusters of green and purple grapes, and wedges of yellow cheeses, she said, “You might not be hungry—we almost never are—but you should still eat.” Her smile was almost sad, and suddenly I felt like I wasn’t alone in the whole missing-food thing.

I couldn’t help questioning the offer of food . . . or the melancholy smile. If the gesture was calculated, it was a pretty good show—I had to give her that much. But it wasn’t like I was going anywhere, and she was right, it wouldn’t do me any good not to eat.

I eased down on the nearest wooden bench. There were rows of them, all with peeling paint, and all bolted to the tile floor. She set the plate down in front of me.

“Where are Simon and the others?” I asked when she straddled the bench, opposite the plate.

She just watched me for several long seconds.

Despite the circumstances, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by her. She was more than just pretty. There was something mesmerizing about her, about the purse of her lips and the way her dark eyes felt like they understood you—like she knew you—that made you want to just . . . look at her. I found myself searching for the right thing to say, and had to remind myself she wasn’t my friend.

“It’s safe here,” she said instead of answering my question. She glanced around the locker room, but I knew that wasn’t what she meant.

She was talking about this place, this camp, and I immediately thought of the way Simon had said that very same thing to me, right before he’d been taken away. That I was safe, and that he’d protect me, and that I had nothing to be afraid of.

So why wasn’t I convinced?

“You’re not what I was expecting.” There was no point pretending I trusted her. I reached for one of the polished green grapes and bit into it.

Food might not exactly be the same anymore, but fruit somehow tasted less cardboard-y than most other things. It might not be powdered-doughnut good or anything, but it was the closest to the taste I remembered from before.

She crossed her arms, a small frown pushing her brows together. “What were you expecting?”


I chose another grape, purple this time. I let the juice, sweeter than the green one, roll over my tongue. Shrugging, I answered, “I don’t know. I guess I thought I’d be grilled, maybe get the whole good-cop, bad-cop routine, while you guys tried to find out what we’re doing here.” I smiled because saying it out loud made it sound kind of absurd. “Maybe a little waterboarding.”

She smiled too, and I was bombarded by a sensation of wanting to please her. If she was anything, she was definitely the good cop. “What makes you think I’m not here for information?”

I pulled off a corner of the cheese, forcing myself to remember she was one of them—part of the camp holding us captive. “Just so you know, I don’t know anything important.” I wasn’t lying, at least not yet. The computers were Jett’s department, and weapons were Willow’s area of expertise. Simon was so damn secretive that even if there was anything to know, he never would have told me anyway.

I glanced at my watch. 12:52. I wished she’d just get to the point. I wanted to be taken to where Simon and Jett and the others had been moved to already.

“Why are we being held like this? We didn’t do anything wrong. When can I see my friends?” I met her deep brown eyes and tried to decide if there was anything unusual about them, like Simon’s and Natty’s, and Buzz Cut’s, whose blue was so charged, it practically pulsed. This girl’s cocoa-color eyes were deep and rich, but also very ordinary. Outside, I could hear voices yelling—the sounds of drills being called. I itched to look down at my watch again, but I held firm on the girl, determined not to give her any insight on me.

She shifted her weight and I purposely avoided looking at her as she uncrossed her arms. “Let me ask you a question, Kyra.” Hearing her say my name shouldn’t have surprised me. I’m sure they all knew who we were by now, but there was something about the way she said it. Her voice was low and she leaned forward expectantly. “Who is it you belong to? Simon or Thom?” She examined me closely, and that feeling of wanting her to like me vanished. Now I just wanted her to stop staring.

Her choice of wording made my skin itch.