Whisper (Whisper #1)(6)

He’s messing with my head, and he’s barely spoken two sentences.

Irrationally, I blame the clothing. He’s wearing jeans — jeans — and a fitted black T-shirt that clings to every inch of his torso. I miss jeans. I miss T-shirts. I miss blues and blacks and colors in general. Like Falon, I have no idea why this guy in front of me doesn’t have to wear regulation attire, but his lack of uniformity — and his presence in general — is disarming.

“Seriously.” He throws out an arm. “Please sit down. I feel weird with you just standing there.”

I blink at that. Not because he feels weird — I’m used to people being nervous around me. No, I’m caught off guard by his manners. I’d forgotten how nice the word please sounds, how beautiful its intentions are. I find myself responding unconsciously, and I move to sit on the farthest corner of the couch, where I sink deep into its cushions.

I was right: it is more luxurious than Falon’s chair. But I don’t allow myself to relax. I sit perched on the edge of the lounge, stiff as a concrete slab, waiting to see what will come next.

“Thanks,” he says, taking his seat again. “I always feel strange sitting down when other people are standing.”

I’m surprised by his admission. I thought he was anxious about my threat-level classification, but apparently that isn’t the case.

I wonder what he knows about me. Surely he wouldn’t still be smiling that crooked smile if he’d read my file.

“I’m Landon Ward — ‘Ward’ to most people, but you can call me ‘Landon.’”

I will do absolutely no such thing.

“As for you …”

Ward’s gaze rakes over me, from head to toe and back again. Something causes his eyes to light up. He presses his lips together, looks away, smiles a secret smile.

“You are definitely not a Jane Doe.”

Eleven hundred years. That’s how long it seems to take before I can manage a breath.

I don’t know what to make of Ward’s statement. I fight the blood that tries to find its way to my cheeks, and wrestle away my urge to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I want to move my hands, to cross and uncross my legs, to bite my lip, but I resist the impulse to fidget. I won’t let him see that he’s unsettled me. I refuse to give him that kind of power.

“No, definitely not a Jane Doe,” he says again, almost pensively. “But I’ve been told that you won’t give us your real name. So, what should I call you?”

If he expects an answer to that question, then he really hasn’t read my file.

“We could go with something descriptive. Your hair is so dark, but your eyes are so bright — we could do something there.” He tilts his head and goes on, “Maybe we could go with something unexpected, something imposing … like ‘Butch.’ How do you feel about ‘Butch’?”

I’m amazed by the words that are pouring from his mouth. For the first time in two and a half years, I’m fighting what feels like a smile.

“You don’t look like a Butch, though, do you? No more than you do an average Jane Doe.” He appears amused, and I still don’t know why. “What about some kind of flower? ‘Blossom’ could work.”

My nose wrinkles before I can suppress the impulse. I quickly wipe my expression clear, but the damage is done.

Ward’s dimple reappears. “Not a fan of that one, huh? No flowers, then. Promise.” He strums his fingers on his denim-clad thigh. “It looks like you’ll have to leave it with me. But don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll come up with something once I know you better.”

Who is this guy?

“Right!”

He claps his hands and jumps to his feet. I jerk at his sudden movement and hope he doesn’t notice.

“We’d better get started. We only have —” he glances at his watch “— five more hours together. You know what they say: time flies when you’re having fun.”

Five hours? It’s not uncommon for me to have longer sessions in the afternoons, but usually the time is split between multiple evaluators. It’s been years since I’ve spent that long in the presence of just one person.

“I’m thinking we’ll take it easy today while we get to know each other,” Ward says, striding over to the nearest bookshelf. “That work for you?”

No. It doesn’t work for me. I don’t know what “easy” means to him. I don’t know why he wants us to “get to know each other.”

“Besides,” he adds, perusing the titles, “I’m still wrecked from last night, and I don’t have the mental capacity to do anything too strenuous. It was my sister’s eighteenth birthday, and when I say she knows how to celebrate, I mean it. I’m only a year older, but sometimes I feel like an old man in comparison.”

I don’t understand what is happening here. He’s talking to me like we’ve known each other for years. Why isn’t he taping electrodes to my scalp, sending Tasered pulses into me and demanding that I follow a strict set of instructions? His behavior makes no sense.

“Heads up.”

When he tosses a book my way, I catch it just before it hits me in the face.

“Nice reflexes.” He looks impressed. “Enzo’s always bragging about how well you’ve responded to his training.”