by Amy Engel
Jack puts a hand under my elbow, but I stand on my own. I’m not afraid of what’s going to happen in this courtroom. I’m only afraid of what will come after.
Judge Lozano looks to be in his late forties, with short, salt and pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses. I never formally met him during my months at the courthouse, but from a distance, he always appeared friendly enough. Today there is no evidence of that friendliness.
“Mr. Stewart,” he says, looking at Jack over the top of his glasses. “I understand your client wishes to enter a guilty plea?”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
Judge Lozano glances at me and beckons me with a sharp curl of his fingers. My stomach does a hard forward roll, but I manage to contain my nerves. I walk up to the bench, and Judge Lozano points me to the witness box next to him. There is no chair inside the box so I stand, facing the gallery full of spectators. My eyes skim over the faces and finally land on Bishop. He is still staring at me, his face grave. I have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking. It takes me back to those first days of our marriage, when every word he said or gesture he made was a complete mystery to me.
“You have been charged with attempted murder in the first degree. What’s your plea?” Judge Lozano asks me, voice loud, and I jerk myself back to reality.
“Guilty,” I say without hesitation.
Everyone knew my plea, but hearing it out loud, from my own mouth, sends a ripple of unease around the room. I am thankful that I will be spared having to outline my crime in detail, the way it used to be done before the war. No one is as concerned with a defendant’s rights anymore. If you say you’re guilty, they take you at your word. They must figure you’d be a fool to admit guilt and risk being put out unless you actually committed the crime.
“Given the unusual nature of this case, the president has requested that I pronounce your sentence and have it carried out immediately.” Now the ripple has turned to outright shock. Apparently, the speed of my punishment is news to the gathered crowd. Most of them look thrilled to be witnessing such excitement. Bishop, too, seems surprised. His head whips toward his parents, and then he leans forward, hands gripping the wooden balustrade separating the gallery from the courtroom.
I try to tell him with my eyes that it’s all right. The last thing I want is for him to worry about me. I want him to forget me and move on. Be safe and happy. He doesn’t need to worry. I am prepared for what’s coming. Or as prepared as I can possibly be.
“Ivy Westfall Lattimer, you are hereby sentenced to be put out beyond the fence. Sentence effective immediately following these proceedings.”
The courtroom erupts, even though my actual sentence can come as a shock to no one. Over the din, I hear Bishop call my name, and although I know I should not look at him, I cannot bear to leave without seeing him one last time. But when I let my gaze travel to his, I wish I had turned away. He is standing at the balustrade, his face pale and drawn, and Callie’s hand is on his upper arm, her face tipped up to his. She is whispering urgently to him. Her touch is too familiar, her face too kind. She is playing a part to get what she wants.
Something snaps inside of me, something that’s been pulled taut for days, weeks, maybe forever. I see Callie clearly now—her heart is cold; her quest for power, her need for revenge, is even stronger than my father’s. She is not going to let this stop her. To her, Bishop is not a person worthy of love or empathy. To her, he is like the dog that bit me, the one she choked on the end of his chain. Bishop is a nuisance. He is in her way. And whatever it takes, she is going to find a way to hurt him.
I charge out of the witness box and get halfway to her before the guards realize I’ve moved. One grabs me by the arm and wrenches me backward, but I don’t stop, straining and kicking against him. I’m a wild thing, feral and out of control. If I can get free, I have no doubt I can kill her with my bare hands.
I scream, a long, mournful howl that silences the rest of the room. Another guard joins the first, and they drag me toward the side door of the courtroom even as my feet drum against the floor. I scream and scream until my lungs are empty and bright dots dance before my eyes. I scream as I hear Bishop yell my name. I scream until I’m shoved through the door into a hallway and something hard and heavy hits me on the side of the head and my world fades into black.
I
t is dark. Inky dark. My head throbs in time with my thudding heart. Something sharp is pressed into my cheek. Even my eyelids ache, but I manage to open them. More darkness, although it’s not so black. Shot through with pale streaks of light. I roll my eyes upward. The moon. I’m outside. How did I get outside?
I tilt my head and groan as pain slides through my skull like a hot knife. I turn my head carefully to the side, lift my cheek off the rock cutting into my skin. There is something glinting in the darkness beside me, a silvery sheen. I can’t figure out what it is. It hurts too much to think. I snake a hand out and reach with trembling fingers. Cool metal, thin and smooth. It rattles against my hand. I know what it is, but my mind fights the knowledge. My fingers curl around the metal the way Bishop’s did the day we stood on the opposite side.
I am beyond the fence. And I am alone.
I
t’s the thought of the dead girl that finally gets me moving. I know that no one is coming. My father and Callie are not going to appear on the other side of the fence with a new plan, this one destined to save me. Bishop is not going to crash through the trees, his hands full of water, his face full of forgiveness. But still I remain against the fence, the metal pushing between my shoulder blades, my head thick and throbbing.
As the sun rises high in a cloudless blue sky, the only sound the relentless thrum of hungry grasshoppers in the high grass, my mind turns to the girl Mark Laird killed. Her body lies somewhere along the perimeter of this fence. And I know if I don’t move soon, I will end up just like her. Abandoned, forgotten. Left to rot. Because the longer I sit here, eyes glassy and gaze unfocused, the easier it becomes to stay.
I have no idea which way to go. Or even how to take the first step. When I was in the cell below the courthouse, I told myself that I could handle this eventuality. But now that it’s here, I think I overestimated my own strength. A few listless tears mingle with sweat on my face, and I lower my head to my upturned knees, even though it makes the pain in my head worse, like two knives behind my eyes, probing for a way out.
There are only two choices. Stay here and die. Or get up and see what happens next.
I don’t want to end up like the dead girl. I don’t want to give up like my own mother. I may be her daughter, but I am not her. I lift my head and hook my hand into the chain-link above my head, use it to pull myself upright. My leg muscles scream in protest after more than twelve hours on the ground, and black dots dance across my vision.
I remember Bishop saying that the river is to the east. I made sure to pay attention to which way the sun rose this morning. Water. That’s my first priority. Find water, and worry about everything else after that. The only way forward is one painful step at a time.
The going is slow, my arms and legs not quite moving in sync. I probe gingerly at the back of my head, and while my hair is tacky, there is no fresh blood flowing. I wonder how many times they hit me before they threw me out here, whether they had any qualms at all about dumping a teenage girl out into the dark, alone and unconscious. Probably not. After all, I tried to kill the president’s son.
Instantly, Bishop’s face flashes in my memory. I grit my teeth, push him from my mind. He is not mine to remember anymore. He might as well be a million miles away from me, rather than somewhere not so far beyond the fence that separates us. I have to find a way to forget him, even though just the thought of it makes it hard for me to breathe. He’s elemental to me now, as much a part of me as my skin or my aching heart. But surviving alone and beyond the fence is going to take everything I have. I can’t afford to waste a single second thinking about anything, or anyone, else.
; The ground is rough and uneven, sloping slightly downward and just begging me to step wrong and twist an ankle. I give a little silent thank-you to Victoria for making sure I got a proper set of clothes before I was put out: jeans, closed-toe shoes, a tank top and sweater, even though it’s way too hot for one. At least my clothes give me a fighting chance. I doubt I’d last very long barefoot and in the pajama shorts I was wearing when they first threw me in jail.
The going would be easier if I moved away from the fence, but I’m reluctant to release my hold on it. My left hand skates across the surface as I walk, metal bumping underneath my fingers. As a child, the thought of the fence frightened me. But now it feels like a security blanket I can’t let go of. Stepping away from it means stepping into the abyss. I may wander so far afield that I can never find my way back.
I don’t have any real idea of how far away the river is from where I was put out, but I can’t imagine it’s too far. Thinking of the river reminds me of Bishop again, and I stumble over a divot in the ground. I give myself a mental shake. Not even five minutes after I promised to forget, and I’m already breaking my vow.
I try to empty my head of thought, concentrate solely on putting one foot in front of the other. Something warm and wet slithers down my neck, but I tell myself it’s sweat and not blood and refuse to allow myself to check. There’s nothing I can do about it if I am bleeding again, so it’s better not to know. Once I’m at the river, I can douse my head with water, wash away the blood that itches where it’s dried to crusty patches on my skin and tangled in my already matted hair.
From the north—the Westfall side of the fence—I hear the faint sound of voices, and I stop cold, my heart hammering its way up into my throat. I press against the fence, my fingers curling around the warm metal. It’s two children, probably forty feet in the distance, playing some kind of game among the trees. I doubt their parents know they have wandered so close to the fence.
“Hello,” I call, but my voice is rusty and weak and they don’t look up. I try again, clear my throat and yell a little louder. This time they both see me, scrambling up to their feet in unison. The older one, a girl, pushes the smaller boy behind her.
“Can you help me?” I ask. “Please.”
The boy’s hand comes around and fists in the girl’s sundress, one eye peeking out from behind her hip.
“Go away,” the girl yells. “Get out of here!” The words themselves are strong, but her voice wobbles, her eyes bright with fear. Her pale blond hair skates across her face in the breeze.
I know they can’t do anything for me. That my very presence is terrifying to them. But I can’t bring myself to walk away. A sudden fierce desperation grips me, the knowledge that when these two children flee, I will be completely alone in the world.
“Please,” I say, barely a whisper. “Please.”
The girl bends down and grabs something from the ground. She pulls her arm back and throws it at me. The rock bounces off the fence just above my hand, the metallic clang loud in the surrounding silence. She grabs the boy by the arm and retreats into the trees. In only seconds they have disappeared from view, the woods once again empty save for me.
I lean my head against my hands. My skin is filthy, dirt caked in uneven patches. My forearm is painted with streaks of dried blood. I’m sure I looked like a monster to those children. Something evil beyond the fence, the child-stealing witch their mother always warned them about.
Tears slip down my cheeks, their salt stinging my lips. I give in, allow myself to weep for everything I’ve lost, for the fear of what’s to come. I grieve the daughter I was, the wife I never wanted to be, the killer I refused to become, the traitor I pretended to be.
I am none of those things now. I raise my head and wipe my eyes. Daughter. Wife. Killer. Traitor. They are all old versions of me. Now I will become a survivor.
I take a deep breath and let go of the fence.
Don’t miss the stunning sequel to
The Book of Ivy:
The Revolution of Ivy
Ivy Westfall is beyond the fence and she is alone. Abandoned by her family and separated from Bishop Lattimer, Ivy must find a way to survive on her own in a land filled with countless dangers, both human and natural. She has traded a more civilized type of cruelty—forced marriages and murder plots—for the bare-knuckled brutality required to survive outside Westfall’s borders.
But there is hope beyond the fence, as well. And when Bishop reappears in Ivy’s life, she must decide if returning to Westfall to take a final stand for what she believes is right is worth losing everything she’s fought for.
Coming to retailers everywhere November 2015!
Acknowledgments
A massive thank you to: my editors, Alycia Tornetta and Stacy Cantor Abrams, for their keen insights and for helping me make this book better; everyone at Entangled Publishing for giving me this opportunity; Rebecca Mancini, for working her foreign rights magic; my husband, Brian, for loving and supporting me even when I’m at my craziest and for always being my constant; my children, Graham and Quinn, for hardly ever complaining when making dinner takes a backseat to writing and for making me laugh every day; my mom, for reading to me when I was young (just one more!); my family, near and far, for their encouragement and enthusiasm; Holly, for being the sister I never had and the best friend I couldn’t live without; Meshelle, Michelle, and Trish for our monthly margarita lunches which both keep me sane and force me to get out of my writing clothes (i.e., sweatpants) once in a while; and last but not least, my cat Larry, who keeps my legs warm while I’m writing.
About the Author
Amy Engel was born in Kansas, and after a childhood spent bouncing among countries (Iran, Taiwan) and states (Kansas; California; Missouri; Washington, D.C.), she settled in Kansas City, Missouri, where she lives with her husband and two children. Before devoting herself full-time to motherhood and writing, she worked as a criminal defense attorney, which is not quite as exciting as it looks on television. When she has a free moment, she can usually be found reading, running, or shoe shopping.
www.amyengel.net
Don’t miss the emotional and romantic debut from Shannon Lee Alexander
Love and Other Unknown Variables
Available now!
Charlie Hanson has a clear vision of his future. A senior at Brighton School of Mathematics and Science, he knows he’ll graduate, go to MIT, and inevitably discover solutions to the universe’s greatest unanswered questions. He’s that smart. But Charlie’s future blurs the moment he reaches out to touch the tattoo on a beautiful girl’s neck.
The future has never seemed very kind to Charlotte Finch, so she’s counting on the present. She’s not impressed by the strange boy at the donut shop—until she learns he’s a student at Brighton where her sister has just taken a job as the English teacher. With her encouragement, Charlie orchestrates the most effective prank campaign in Brighton history. But, in doing so, he puts his own future in jeopardy.
By the time he learns she’s ill—and that the pranks were a way to distract Ms. Finch from Charlotte’s illness—Charlotte’s gravitational pull is too great to overcome. Soon he must choose between the familiar formulas he’s always relied on or the girl he’s falling for (at far more than 32 feet per second squared).
Read on for a sneak peek!
1.0
Beginnings are tricky things. I’ve been staring at this blank page for forty-seven minutes. It is infinite with possibilities. Once I begin, they diminish.
Scientifically, I know beginnings don’t exist. The world is made of energy, which is neither created nor destroyed. Everything she is was here before me. Everything she was will always remain. Her existence touches both my past and my future at one point—infinity.
Lifelines aren’t lines at all. They’re more like circles.
It’s safe to start anywhere and the story will curve its way back to the starting point. Eventually.
In other words, it doesn�
��t matter where I begin. It doesn’t change the end.
1.1
Geeks are popular these days. At least, popular culture says geeks are popular. If nerds are hip, then it shouldn’t be hard for me to meet a girl.
Results from my personal experimentation in this realm would suggest pop culture is stupid. Or it could be that my methodology is flawed. When an experiment’s results are unexpected, the scientist must go back and look at the methods to determine the point at which an error occurred. I’m pretty sure I’m the error in each failed attempt at getting a girl’s attention. Scientifically, I should have removed myself from the equation, but instead, I kept changing the girl.
Each experiment has led to similar conclusions.
Subject: Sara Lewis, fifth grade, Method: Hold her hand under the table during social studies,
Result: Punched in the thigh.
Subject: Cara Whetherby, fifth grade, second semester, Method: Yawn and extend arm over her shoulder during Honor Roll Movie Night,
Result: Elbowed in the gut.
Subject: Maria Castillo, sixth grade,
Method: Kiss her after exiting the bus,
Result: Kneed in the balls.
After Maria, I decided my scientific genius was needed for other, better, experiments. Experiments that would write me a first-class ticket to MIT.
I’m tall and ropey with sandy blond hair so fine it’s like dandelion fluff—the kind of dork that no amount of pop culture can help. Which is how I already know how this experiment will end, even as my hand reaches out to touch the girl standing in front of me at Krispy Kreme donuts.
There was a long line when I walked in this morning, so I’d been passing the time by counting the ceiling tiles (320) and figuring the ratio of large cups to small cups stacked next to the coffee (3:2). I’d been counting the donuts in the racks (>