Whisper (Whisper #1)(8)

“Seriously, Chip, what’s with you today?”

I press my lips together and look across the room, avoiding his gaze. I hate that Ward chose the name “Chip” for me. I hate it, because I love it.

“I’ve decided to call you ‘Chip,’” he told me at the end of our first day together. He flashed me a dimpled grin before explaining, “Every time you hear me say it, it’ll be like a chisel is chip, chip, chipping away at your icy exterior. One day I’ll chip enough away that I’ll be able to see the real you. I bet it’ll be well worth the wait.”

I haven’t been able to get his words out of my head. And sure enough, every time he addresses me by the stupid, awful, horrible … beautiful nickname, I feel myself melting — chipping — little by little.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Ward runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Fine. But you were shattered yesterday, and today you’re even worse. I want you to get a good night’s sleep so you don’t come back tomorrow looking like death warmed up again. Okay?”

The appropriate response is to nod, so I do that. What Ward doesn’t realize is that I have been sleeping well at night. It’s the days that are killing me.

“We’re finished here,” Ward says. “I’ll take you back to your room before you doze off again.”

He stands and, before I can stop him, reaches for my hand and pulls me up beside him. My fingers spasm in reaction to his skin against mine. Startled, I suck in a breath. It’s been so long since I’ve felt the gentle touch of another human being. The closest I’ve come was my handshake with Falon — though that hardly counts — and my sparring sessions with Enzo, but I always have gloves on for those. I’d forgotten how warm other people are, especially since all I’ve felt is cold for over two and a half years. No, longer than that. Ever since —

I force the memories away before they can take root, and I focus on the fact that regardless of how long it has been, I’m not cold now. Or my hand isn’t, anyway. That’s why it takes me more time than it should before I yank it away.

The action seems to startle Ward. He raises his palms in an “easy there” gesture and looks at me with questions in his eyes.

Questions I refuse to answer.

He doesn’t press for answers and leads the way to the door. Usually this is when he calls for my guard escorts, but tonight he continues into the hall and heads toward my cell.

I’ve never been in the hallways without a set of guards, and I’ve never walked anywhere in Lengard without being bound by handcuffs. I revel in the sense of freedom.

We travel the corridors in silence. I wonder if I offended Ward by snatching my hand from his; then I wonder why that possibility bothers me.

“This is you, right?” he asks when we reach my numbered door.

That’s me, all right. Subject Six-Eight-Four.

I nod, and Ward presses his hand to the touch screen mounted on the wall. The door slides open, and I wait to see what he’ll do next. I am unsure — yet, unsurprised — when he enters before me.

“This is your room?” he asks again, staring around the small space.

I try to see it from his perspective. Four whitewashed walls. A thin foam mattress on a pallet in the corner. A lumpy pillow. A ragged, threadbare blanket. It may not be five-star accommodations, but it provides everything I need to survive.

I don’t understand the tension I see lining Ward’s features. His green — so green — eyes are blazing, his jaw is clenched impossibly tight and a muscle is pulsing erratically in his cheek. His hands are in fists by his sides as if he’s fighting the urge to hit something. Or someone.

Nervous, I step back, and the movement returns his hard eyes to me. His gaze sweeps my body, taking in my bare feet, my pillowcase uniform and what I’m sure must be my exhausted features. I realize that probably for the first time, he’s seeing me as I really am. He’s spent the last twelve days trying to befriend me for unknown reasons; perhaps until now he has never truly understood that I’m not a person here at Lengard — I’m a prisoner.

A million moments pass while he stares at me. I want to look away, but I sense the importance of holding his gaze. He needs to know that I’m aware of his dawning comprehension. And I need to witness the moment when his facade cracks, when he finally morphs into the uncaring evaluator he’s supposed to have been all along.

I wait and I wait, but that moment never comes.

“I can’t believe this.”

His voice is low, and I can tell he’s not talking directly to me.

“I don’t know what they’re playing at here.”

He shakes his head and looks in my direction but avoids my eyes for the first time since I met him. His focus is somewhere over my shoulder when he says, “Get some sleep, Chip. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With that, he strides straight past me and out the door. It slides closed after him, leaving me with nothing but the company of my exponentially increasing list of questions.





CHAPTER FOUR


After eight hours’ sleep, I feel like a whole new person the next morning. There’s a spring in my step as I’m escorted through the whitewashed hallways and into Dr. Manning’s office. The therapist notices my buoyant spirit and sends a smile my way as he gestures for me to take a seat.