by Kat Zhang
“A story like the one I want to tell about Wendy and Anna—about what happens to hybrid children in this country—it’s something that’s never been done before. No one’s ever dared to. But it’ll be worth it. People need concrete pictures, Addie. They can’t just be left to imagine what it’s like in an institution. They have to see it.”
Addie flipped the photograph over and stared at the glossy image. Marion hesitated. “I need someone on the inside.”
Darcie Grey had wavy, light blond hair and brown eyes. Darcie Grey had freckles and a small nose and thin lips.
Darcie Grey looked like us.
FOUR
Darcie didn’t look exactly like us, of course. She seemed younger. Her eyes were bigger, and had more hazel in them. Her face was a little wider, her hair shorter and several shades lighter than our dirty blond. But we might have been sisters. Cousins, at least.
And Marion needed someone on the inside.
“Darcie has a heart condition,” Marion was saying—her words had turned into a breathy tumble of syllables as Addie and I realized what she was asking of us. “Nothing too major, but sending her in to gather footage in the institution—such a high-stress situation seems unnecessarily cruel.”
Marion was still talking. “Besides, Darcie doesn’t have your experience. I can’t know how she’d handle herself in the institution. She might go to pieces, or trust too easily, or not know how to lie well enough. But you . . .”
“I’m practically a criminal mastermind?” Addie said dully.
“You’ve proven able to keep a level head in precarious situations,” Marion said. “I can’t send an adult. All the caretakers are highly vetted now—it would take ages to get anyone through the necessary background checks, and . . .” She seemed to realize Addie was too dazed to listen about background checks. Our eyes fell back to the photograph of Darcie Grey, this girl with the minor heart defect and the soccer uniform and the face that could possibly, possibly be confused for ours.
“That was taken just before her fourteenth birthday,” Marion said. “She doesn’t have a driver’s license or a permit. She was homeschooled, so there are no yearbook pictures.”
“She was on a soccer team.” The words slid from our confused mouth.
“She was,” Marion agreed. “But all things considered, Darcie has lived a life off the record. And to be honest, it isn’t as if they’ll check too closely, if you put on a good show. Her parents aren’t even supposed to know their daughter’s been discovered—they still wouldn’t know, except that I told them.”
She paused, as if she thought this piece of information might endear her to us. Did it? The night Mr. Conivent came to collect us from our home . . . we’d had a few hours’ notice, even if our parents hadn’t. We could have run, or tried to warn Mom and Dad. We’d done neither. We’d been naive, still.
“If you get me this footage,” Marion said, “I’ll free Jackson Montgomery.”
Addie looked at her narrowly. “I thought you wanted to help us. Help the hybrids.”
Marion nodded. “I do.”
“Jackson is hybrid. He’s eighteen. He’s never done anything wrong—”
“I’m sorry,” Marion said, and she really did look it. As if she was explaining a game we didn’t quite understand, and the rules said we’d lost. “But he helped orchestrate the bombing of a government building. He’s an accomplice to attempted murder.”
“That’s not true,” Addie said automatically. “You have no proof of that.”
Marion leaned against the counter. Her long, straight hair pooled against the countertop, fawn brown. “It’s been more than three weeks since the bombing. They’ve held Jackson for that long. They’ve investigated for that long. You really think they haven’t had time to come up with any proof?” Her voice softened. “That’s not the point. I know where he’s being held. I know when he’s going to be transferred. I can help you free him.”
“Then do it.” Addie stepped toward Marion, as careful as when the woman had done the same. The distance between us was fast disappearing. “An act of good faith.”
“I can’t.”
“Then how can I trust you?”
“If I’m going to help Jackson escape,” Marion said, “the timing is crucial. I can’t just waltz in there tomorrow. And I’m going to need help from people I know on the inside—people who will be a lot more willing to help if they have some kind of proof that in ten years, they’re going to be remembered as heroes, not traitors.” She glanced toward Wendy. Smiled a little. “Not everyone is willing to put so much on the line, just blindly hoping for a brighter future.”
There was admiration, of a sort, in her voice. But also a note of pity. Or even condescension—but perhaps that was just my irritated imagination. Wendy smiled hesitantly back.
Anger rushed through me. Did Wendy’s parents even know what she was doing? Had Marion convinced her to run away from home, to join her on this complicated, uncertain quest? Maybe Wendy had a simple, genuine need to help. An unadulterated hope for change.
But such things were rarely enough.
I wanted, so badly, to tell Wendy to be careful. Of who she trusted. Of the decisions she made with nothing but good intentions.
Marion put out her hands, palm up. “We’re on the same side. Please, help me, and let me help you.”
Addie laughed bitterly.
We’re on the same side.
This is me looking out for you.
They were all things Sabine had said to us while she betrayed us. We wouldn’t fall for pretty words again.
A hand brushed against our shoulder. Dr. Lyanne. She glanced at Marion, then back to us.
“Give us a moment,” she said as she directed Addie and me toward the kitchen door. She didn’t let us stop walking until we’d reached the far end of the living room. Peter was already there, standing stiffly by the stairs.
Dr. Lyanne’s grip tightened on our shoulder. “We have to leave. Go tell Jaime and the others. Get everyone to pack.”
“What?” Addie said. We hadn’t even recovered from the shock of Marion’s proposal. Now we were being hit with something else. “Why? What’s happened?”
“It’s Emalia,” Dr. Lyanne said quietly. Her eyes bore into ours, forced us to keep steady. “Something’s wrong.”
We’d prepared for this. We’d hoped it would never happen, but Peter was Peter, and we’d prepared.
Ryan met us at the top of the stairs, appearing from the darkness of the unlit hallway.
“We have to go,” Addie said before he could speak. “Emalia never made it back from dropping Henri off. She should have checked in with one of Peter’s contacts more than an hour ago.”
I saw him swallow down questions. We’d never physically drilled what we would do in case Something Went Wrong, but the steps had run through our minds more than enough times. Extraneous questions were not on the list.
He allowed himself one: “And Henri?”
Addie shook our head. “Can’t be sure. Peter’s contact checked out the area. There was some kind of investigation going on. Both Henri and Emalia are missing—together, separately . . . we don’t know.” She swallowed, throat tight. “Go get Kitty and Jaime. They’re probably in the attic.”
With Emalia and Henri possibly detained, there was no telling what the government might already know—or find out. This house was no longer safe.
In less than half an hour, we wiped the place clean of our existence. It wasn’t hard. Each of us had arrived with no more than a single suitcase. The nuances and necessities of our lives folded right back where we’d stored them. A few changes of clothes. Some toiletries. A small notebook Addie had found at a bus station and doodled in.
Almost everything had been given to us by people in Peter’s network. Men and women we’d never met who
helped us sneak from city to city, state to state. Addie and I had a small shoulder bag, denim and old-fashioned. We packed the most important things in there now, so we could always have them with us: Henri’s satellite phone, copies of our false identifications, some spare cash for emergencies, the little round chip Ryan had given us before leaving for Nornand. Addie slipped Darcie Grey’s picture inside as well—and, after a breath of hesitation, the cartridge containing the footage of Jackson’s arrest.
“Are they coming with us?” Hally whispered as we carried our luggage out to the van. “The girl and the reporter lady, I mean.”
Addie shrugged. The others were already stacking suitcases in the van’s trunk. Peter stood a little ways down the driveway, speaking with Marion. Wendy lingered beside them. Her eyes found ours as soon as we approached.
I said.
“We have our own car,” Marion was protesting. She had her keys in hand. “We’ll just follow behind.”
“No one’s following behind,” Peter said. “Give us a number, or some other way to contact you.”
Marion frowned. Next to Peter, she seemed young, and slight, and faint with her pale looks and breathy voice. “How do I know you’ll call?”
Peter held out his hand. His expression had gone rigid, his eyes stony. “I’m asking for a contact,” he said. “That’s the best you’re going to get.”
They faced off for a moment, neither looking like retreat was an option. Finally, Marion nodded. She scribbled a number on a business card and handed it to Peter. But when he was busy loading the last of the luggage, she brushed by Addie and me and pushed another card into our hands. We didn’t need to look to know what was written on it.
“Call me,” she said over her shoulder.
FIVE
After the rush and frenzy of packing, being on the road again was strangely anticlimatic. For the first half hour or so, we all sat in rigid silence. Peter seemed focused on nothing but the stretch of highway in front of us and the steering wheel he gripped with both hands. We’d left the farmhouse behind, were encroaching now on the edges of small towns, the narrow highway threading between them.
Addie hugged our arms around our purse, like it might protect us.
I hadn’t been thinking about Jackson. I’d been worrying about where Peter was taking us next, and how safe it would be, and whether Emalia and Henri had really been captured. I’d been noticing every time Ryan shifted in his seat, the way his shoulders were tensed, even when he tried to smile at us.
But Addie had been thinking of Jackson, and so I felt a pang of guilt that I hadn’t been doing the same.
God only knew what he’d been through since the night we’d last seen him.
She nodded absently. Held the purse a little tighter against our stomach.
The words were accompanied by a dagger-sharp jab of pain. It slipped in between breaths. Made our lungs hitch.
Jackson had told us about the years he’d spent in an institution, before Peter rescued him. The windowless rooms. The terrified children. The hopelessness of it all.
I couldn’t help imagining him somewhere similar now. Or someplace even worse. If they threw innocent hybrid children into horrific institutions, what would they do with a hybrid criminal?
I was still searching for the right thing to say when the siren blared.
We dove to the floor. Yanked Ryan down with us, crouching in the space between our seats. Our fingers were vises on Ryan’s arm. He squeezed our shoulder, then rose slightly to check the backseat. Hally had ushered Kitty and Jaime down, too.
Addie and I glanced through the back window. It wasn’t a normal-looking police car. This was a van, like ours, but smaller. Sleek and black. It was still a few cars behind us. The siren wailed. Lights flashed.
I found myself in control of our limbs, our tongue. “Peter?” I said tightly.
His eyes met ours in the rearview mirror. “Stay low.”
“Are we going to stop?” Hally whispered. Beside her, Kitty had curled around her knees, her small hands clasped tightly. She stared at the scruffy floor of the van, her mouth thin.
Dr. Lyanne spoke just loudly enough to be heard. “We don’t know if it’s for us.”
Ryan and I looked at each other. The police van gained, the other cars slowing and pulling out of its way.
No one else was going to say it, so I did. “It’s for us.”
Peter didn’t slow. He didn’t speed up, either.
The police van was right behind us now.
“Peter,” Dr. Lyanne said. His eyes flickered to her. Then, finally, the car began to decelerate.
Sixty miles per hour.
Fifty.
Thirty.
“Don’t, Peter.” Ryan kept one hand wrapped around our wrist, but pressed himself forward, toward the front of the van. “Don’t stop.”
We pulled over onto the side of the road, hitting the rumble strip. Then the sparse grass. Peter put the van in park, but didn’t kill the engine. The police van rolled to a halt behind us, wheels crunching gravel.
We hadn’t been speeding. Even in his rush, Peter wouldn’t take a chance like that. Why had we been picked out?
Was it Marion? Had she been sent by the government, after all? She could have memorized our license plate. Peter switched vehicles as often as he could, but we hadn’t gotten the chance since leaving the farmhouse.
Our heart thundered.
The highway was on our left. If we had to escape, we could only go right, through the tall, brittle grass. There wasn’t cover for a good dozen yards or so, until the edge of the trees.
“Peter,” Ryan said. His grip was crushing—I would have wrenched away if I weren’t so focused on the police van. Its side door swung open.
A man stepped out. He wore the pressed black pants and collared shirt of a businessman. But we saw the gun holstered at his hip.
He moved toward us slowly. His partner stayed behind.
He was three feet from the back bumper when Peter threw the car into drive.
We screeched from the curb, lunging in front of a car. The driver blared his horn and stomped on the brakes just in time to avoid impact. Hally screamed.
The sirens wailed again. Peter’s knuckles shone white on the steering wheel. He swerved left. Cut off another car. Put as much distance as he could between us and the police van hot in pursuit.
Horns bellowed up and down the highway.
After Hally’s initial scream of surprise, no one in the van made a noise. No one shouted or said, Peter! or asked him what the hell he was doing—we were going to die, we were going to hit someone—
“They’re gaining,” Dr. Lyanne whispered, and that was all.
The police were only two cars behind us. Then one. Then none at all. The road ahead of us cleared of cars.
The black van drifted left, straddling the center lane. It was still gaining speed, though Peter gunned our engine for all it was worth. The van started to pull up beside us, its front bumper aligning with our back wheel well.
I saw the collision coming the second before I felt it.
Metal shrieked. We flew against Ryan. Tumbled against the car door. Something rammed into our shoulder. Luggage.
The world spun. Wheels skidded. Everyone careened in the opposite direction, Ryan’s body slamming into ours even as he fought to grab on to the seat. Our head cracked against the window.
The pain blinded. It took us what seemed like minutes but was probably seconds to realize the car was no longer moving.
Something choked us—our purse strap. Dizzily, we
tugged at it. Then Ryan was there, helping us wrench the purse free from a pile of suitcases.
“Eva,” Ryan was yelling in our ear. “Eva, get up!”
The blow had jostled my thoughts beyond comprehension. But I understood the terrified urgency in his voice, and I understood get up and I went where his arms pulled me. He yanked the side door open. A suitcase tumbled out, smashing into the grass.
Grass. We’d spun back to the curb.
I tried to shake my head clear. Groaned as the nausea increased. Where was everyone? Was everyone okay?
“Jaime,” I gasped. I turned, searching for him. The others could all run, but some days Jaime had trouble just with walking.
“Peter’s got him,” Ryan said. “Come on, Eva—”
He dragged us from the van, both of us tripping on the uneven terrain. I glanced back. Saw Peter pull Jaime from his seat. The boy wrapped his arms around the man’s neck. We were almost to the line of trees, but we were leaving them behind—the others were gone, must have run ahead—Peter and Jaime had to catch up—
A gun fired.
Addie clutched at me.
Gunfire split the air again.
Split more than air.
Smashed through a window, and Jaime screamed. Peter fell. His back hit the ground so fast, so hard. So sudden. Jaime fell with him, limbs crumpling. He struggled to rise again. Peter did not.
The next round of gunfire ripped up the ground near our feet.
Ryan jerked at our numb hand.
We tore into the clump of trees.
I looked back only once.
It was enough to memorize the scene. Our van, doors flung open, luggage spilling out like a disgorged monster. The police van pulled up at a safe distance. An officer hurrying toward Jaime.
Peter staring up at us, but seeing nothing.
SIX
Ryan and I ran until our lungs burned. Until our legs deadened. Even then, we might have kept going—I might have kept going—except Addie screamed at me
I didn’t want to. As long as I was running, I didn’t have to think about anything but putting one foot in front of the other, the wind lashing against our face.