by Eva Ashwood
Gray listens intently, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to my shoulder when I’m finished.
“I think you’re looking at it the wrong way, Sparrow,” he says, and my throat constricts a little, a painful, sharp bite of feeling. “I know we’re supposed to look at art and feel as if we’re getting a glimpse into the soul of the artist. But I don’t think it’s quite so simple. These paintings don’t represent who you are. They represent who you were, and by putting them on canvas, you’re letting the poison bleed out of your soul, clearing the way for your future. It’s making you new, so that when this is all over, it will truly be all over.”
“How can you…” I bite my lip, meeting his smoldering gaze. “How can you see it like that?”
“Because I see you,” he says simply. “I see you for who you are. Perfect, kind, caring, funny.” He gestures to the paintings around us. “And even though this is all a part of you right now, a fucked up, shitty part of you that you have to work through, it isn’t who you are. It doesn’t have to define you or drag you down.”
A single tear manages to escape my eye, rolling down my cheek, but before I can brush it away, he’s leaning forward and kissing the watery trail, ending with a gentle press of his lips to my own.
When he pulls away, his voice is hoarse. “I let the pain fester after Beth died,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to see you do that. I’m glad you’re letting it out, whether it’s painting or talking to me or Declan or Elias. Don’t escape into yourself, okay, Sparrow? You have to stay with me.”
16
I’m ten years old again, in the bunker. My limbs are frail and thin, my skin is pale. I’ve grown up in the bunker—or at least, the bunker is all I know anymore, all I remember.
The longer I sit in this quiet place, the less I remember of my life before. Of my parents, and of my old house. Of the big tree in our backyard. Of freedom.
I’ve tried to keep it in my head, but if I don’t get out of here soon, it’ll all be gone. They try to make it nice down here, like they’re trying to convince me it’ll all be okay. That I belong here and shouldn’t want to leave.
But they’re liars. I know they are.
My arms are bruised, my legs are skimmed with scratches. I put up a fight last time the little boy came down here, and I paid the price for it. But the aches and pains in my body don’t matter anymore, because I’ve found a way out of here. A way to escape.
Escape.
That single, simple word urges me on. The bunker is all I’ve known for so long, but unlike the other girl, I hate it here. That’s why I’m escaping, why I’m going to find my way to that tiny opening in the wall.
But something makes me stop when I reach the door. I know I’m wasting precious seconds, seconds that could mean my life or death, but I stop and look back at my companion—another little girl, more limp and frail than me, maybe my own age. We both look small, too small to be almost eleven. She looks barely seven or eight. I know I don’t look much better.
As if she knows I’m watching, she looks up. Then she frowns, her arms crossed around her body.
“You need to come with me,” I whisper. My voice is too weak, too hoarse to be any louder. “We can get out together. We’ll be free.”
She blinks.
“Don’t you want to be free?” I plead, looking at the door again. Seconds. I have seconds, but I can’t leave her behind. “Remember what it’s like to be free?”
I don’t.
She shakes her head.
“Please, Reagan.” I croak her name out. “You have to come with me. I’ll keep you safe, we’ll get out.”
“I don’t want to go,” she hisses finally. “I like it here.”
“No you don’t. That’s just what he told you.” I know, because he tried to tell me too. The man called Alan, and the boy called Cliff. Both of them tried to tell me, but I know different. I’m not happy here. “That’s what they want you to think.”
“It is what I think,” she says defiantly. “I don’t want to go.”
I hesitate at the door, looking back at her. Pleading is useless. She’s turned away from me, like she doesn’t even want to watch me go. Even as a little girl, I know that the world is fucked up. I know too much. I know that I have seconds to get out of here, and I shouldn’t have wasted any of them on her.
We may have grown up in the bunker together, but there’s no sisterhood between us, no friendship. She loves the monster, and I hate him. As long as I live, she’ll be my enemy.
Won’t she?
A flicker of hurt blossoms inside of my chest, but I push it down. There isn’t time for that. There’s only time for escape.
I reach the spot where the little hole sits high on the wall. It’s covered by a grate, but I’ve managed to loosen the screws over several days of effort, working on it whenever I get the chance.
Dragging over two large crates, I grimace with effort as I stack one on top of the other. The man doesn’t always keep crates down here, and I’ve been terrified that he would take these away before I got a chance to get out.
But they’re still here. And when I’m standing on top of them, I’m just tall enough to reach up and pull the grate away from the opening. My little arms burn as I pull myself up toward the hole in the wall, and my heart races in my chest as I slither awkwardly into the vent.
I don’t know where this little duct leads, but it doesn’t matter. It has to go somewhere better than this. It has to lead away from this awful place.
And the second I get out, I’ll run.
I’ll leave it all behind.
I wake up with my heart pounding, my skin slick with sweat that quickly turns to a chill on my exposed flesh. I want to run, run away from it all, but what is there left to run from? I’ve escaped, I’m not there anymore.
I’m here.
Elias shifts beside me, pressing his warm body flush up against my cold one, and as I come to, I have to repeat it over and over again to myself.
I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.
“Shit. Your heart is racing,” he murmurs against my neck, his lips finding my skin in the darkness. “What is it?”
I open my mouth to say something, to explain what I saw, what I remembered, but I don’t seem to have words. His grasp tightens around me reassuringly as he pulls away enough to meet my gaze in the dark room. His light brown eyes are shadowy in the dim light, and the warmth I find in them is enough to soothe the goose bumps prickling over every inch of me.
“Reagan was there too,” I say quietly, my jaw clenching as memories churn through my mind. “In the bunker. I always suspected she knew me when I was a kid, that she must’ve been in that bunker too, but it was all jumbled up. If the memory in my dream is accurate, though, she was definitely there.”
He lets out a small huff of air. “It makes sense. It explains her involvement in all of this.”
I swallow. “But that’s not all. The day I escaped, I wanted her to come. And she wouldn’t. She wanted to stay.”
Elias grimaces. “Jesus. She was held captive just like you were, and she didn’t want to leave?”
My chest tightens as I nod. “Yeah. I begged her to come with me. I could see how that place was killing both of us, and I wanted to get her out too, but she refused. Fuck. I thought she fell in love with Alan after his wife died, but now I think…” I swallow, bile rising in my throat. “I think she’s been in love with him a lot longer than that.”
I barely sleep for the rest of the night, despite Elias’s comforting presence in the bed beside me. His arms wrap around me like he could shield me from the trauma of my past, and the warmth of his skin against mine keeps the chill from creeping over me.
But memories of the dream keep flashing through my mind, and I can’t stop picturing Reagan’s face. So young and innocent, her mind twisted by things that couldn’t possibly be true. She believed she was happy down there. That she was better off in the bunker than she would be outside.
A str
ange feeling of guilt wraps around my heart as I remember pleading with her to come with me. I knew I had to act fast, so when she told me she wanted to stay, I gave up before too long. I didn’t physically try to pull her along with me, but maybe I should have. Could I have done more to get her out? And if I had, would she still be as fucked up as she is today?
Logically, I know I shouldn’t feel too guilty. Reagan has tried to kill me more than once, after all. And ultimately, the one who’s responsible for all of this is Alan. He’s the one who held us captive. Reagan and I were both his victims, even if she doesn’t see it that way.
Chewing on my lip, I stare up at the dark ceiling.
The guys and I have made it a point to avoid Reagan on campus ever since she abducted me. She clearly has the potential to be a threat, but I wonder if there’s any way we can use her to help us.
She didn’t escape like I did, but she still got out. How? Did she make some sort of bargain with Alan? Or did he actually develop feelings for her too, and take pity on her or something?
Something happened to me after my escape. Whether because of a physical injury or just due to the emotional trauma I’d suffered, I lost my memories of the bunker almost entirely. But I don’t think Reagan lost hers.
And if she didn’t lose her memories like I did, maybe she knows things that can help me.
Maybe she knows why we were kidnapped by Alan.
Reagan may be able to fight like a bitch, but she’s obviously got a screw or two loose. It’s clear that after whatever she’s gone through in her life, it fucked her up in the head and in the heart. She adores Alan, the man responsible for keeping her prisoner for who-knows-how-many years. She won’t willingly betray him. But I have to try to get some answers from her—even if it means threatening her or manipulating her the way we tried to do to Cliff.
By the time morning finally rolls around, I practically jump out of bed. I fill Declan and Gray in on the specifics of my dream as we eat breakfast in the big kitchen downstairs. With some reluctance, although much less than they had about me confronting Cliff, the guys all agree that we should talk to Reagan.
The hard part will be getting her alone. She’s almost constantly tagging along after Caitlin, Gemma, and their other random groupies, and I can’t quite confront her about being locked in a bunker by Cliff’s father with them around.
Luckily, we get our chance on Monday. Max, the guys, and I are sitting at lunch when Caitlin rises from the table where she’s been eating with Gemma and Reagan. I can’t hear what she says, but it’s a clear dismissal of the other two. She sweeps out of the room, pulling a compact from her bag to check her makeup, and I get the sneaking suspicion she’s heading off to hook up with some guy.
Gemma and Reagan sit together for a few minutes, but then Gemma gets up and leaves too. Without their queen bee around, I wonder if the two of them have anything to talk about. It sure doesn’t look like it.
As Gemma leaves the dining hall, I slide my chair back, glancing around at the guys.
“Now’s my chance. I’m going over there.”
“You want backup?” Declan asks, his voice going hard as he glances toward Reagan. She’s eating a salad by herself, and with the fading bruises on her face, she looks about as harmless and sad as a person can get.
But I know better than to believe appearances by this point.
Still, she’ll probably be more likely to talk to me if I approach her alone. And unlike my confrontation with Cliff, we’re in a crowded cafeteria. She can’t pull any shit here without drawing way too much attention.
“I’ll be okay.” I shoot him a reassuring smile. “If I need help, I’ll send up a flare.”
“Be safe, Blue.”
Elias grins at me, but I can tell everyone at the table is tense as I start to walk away, heading across the dining hall toward Reagan’s table.
Memories flash through my head as I near her, a strange combination of old and new images. Reagan’s face, contorted with rage as she attacked me in the woods, alternates with images of her face as a little girl, wan and pale.
How can both of those faces belong to the same person? How can she be both vicious and vulnerable, both guilty and innocent?
I hate that it’s hard to feel pure rage toward her like I used to. I’m still pissed as fuck at her, and I definitely don’t trust her. She’s a puppet for Alan, but that’s the key word—puppet. She’s barely her own person anymore, and it makes me feel almost sorry for her.
Trying to shove down the complicated feelings churning inside me, I slide into an empty seat at her table.
She glances up, and her features harden when she realizes who just joined her. She looks back down at her salad, ignoring my presence.
“We need to talk.”
My voice is firm, but I do what I can to keep the anger and bitterness from seeping into my tone. My throat no longer aches when I speak, but I can still feel the pressure of her fingers around my neck, choking me in the dark woods.
She doesn’t respond, although her grip on her fork tightens.
“I know you were there, Reagan,” I say in a low voice, watching her. Her fork stops on the way to stab a bite of lettuce, but she still doesn’t look up. “I remember you. From when we were younger. You were in that bunker with me.”
Her eyes dart to mine, flashing with something I can’t quite read. “You don’t know anything, Sophie.” Her voice drips with disdain. “You’re just making shit up to try to stir up trouble for Mr. Montgomery. All because his son rejected you and you couldn’t handle it. It’s pathetic.”
I glare at her. “And you’ve obviously been told by Alan exactly what to say.” It’s true—I can practically hear his tone behind her words. “Why were you there, Reagan?”
Her lips press together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do know what I mean,” I murmur quietly. “And you’re going to tell me all about it. Maybe you’re the one who isn’t remembering things right. Do you remember being locked up in that bunker for weeks and weeks and weeks? You told me you wanted to escape. Do you remember that?”
It’s a lie, but it works. I know from seeing her with Alan that she’s truly in love with him, even if that love is based on nothing but Stockholm syndrome. The suggestion that she ever thought about running away from him makes her back stiffen, her eyes narrowing in anger as she turns toward me.
“That’s not true,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “You wanted to escape. You tried to make me go with you, but I would never leave Alan. He promised me—”
She snaps her mouth shut.
So close. So fucking close…
“What? He promised you what?” I press, my heart beating faster. “Why were we there, Reagan?”
Before she can respond, there’s a slam from the other side of the dining hall. Reagan jumps, and a piece of lettuce flies off her fork and lands on the table next to my hand. I flick it away and glance behind me, my eyebrows shooting up when I see a group of uniformed and armed police officers. My throat tightens with nerves as I realize they’re making their way to our table.
Shit. What did Alan pin on me now? Is he trying to get me arrested for threatening Cliff?
But I realize as they near us that it isn’t me they’re after.
When they reach our table, two of the cops pull Reagan to her feet. Detective Banning is with them, his face grim.
“Reagan Hawking, you’re under arrest for the possession and dealing of drugs, abuse of private property, and the suspected kidnapping of Sophie Wright,” he intones.
Reagan’s eyes dart toward mine, panic and fear flashing across her face as one of the cops takes out cuffs and begins to lock them around her wrists. I want to shake my head, to tell her I had nothing to do with her arrest, but I can’t.
What the fuck is going on?
“We have a warrant of arrest, and you will be held for questioning,” Banning continues. “You have the right to remain silent until your lawy
er is present. If you cannot afford a lawyer…”
My mind races as he reads Reagan her rights, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Are Alan and Cliff trying to pin this entire thing on Reagan? She’s far from innocent—hell, she tried to kidnap not only me, but also my best friend—but she’s not the mastermind behind everything. She’s a fucking pawn in this game, and it looks like Alan just decided to sacrifice her to protect himself.
I watch in shock as they lead her away, her unfinished salad still sitting on the table, abandoned.
Banning lingers by the table for a moment, grimacing as he glances down at me. “You were right about the bunker,” he says, his voice low, even though the whole dining hall is watching now. Some people even have their phones out, recording the whole scene to be dissected and discussed later by those who weren’t fortunate enough to witness it in person. “We went back to the bunker to do another sweep, and we found a stash of drugs and cash. Forensic testing led us straight to Ms. Hawking. We have enough evidence to confirm that she’s the one who kidnapped you as well. Justice will come, Miss Wright.”
He gives me a tight smile and what I think is meant to be a reassuring nod, then follows after the other cops. The Sinners all step closer from where they were keeping watch while I spoke to Reagan, and I can see my thoughts reflected on their faces.
Alan. Fucking Alan.
He set her up, pinned everything on her. That’s what she got for being so fucking blinded by him, dedicated to him, wanting to please him. He knew the police were poking around, and he saw her as the perfect scapegoat, saw the situation as the perfect way to throw her under the bus and dispose of her.
Rage fills me as I shove my chair back and straighten, stepping away from the table to meet the guys.
I guess when she kidnapped me, Reagan became just another mess for Alan to have to clean up.
17
One thought keeps cutting through my mind as the Sinners and I join Max at a table in the corner of the dining hall.