by Maggie Ray
Three suicides in one family.
The curse runs deep, and I’m the last one left.
“When you say we, are you referring to your twin sister?” he asks, forcing my attention back to the present.
“Sara, yes.”
“You found her?”
“In the bathroom,” I say. “We didn’t even know she was sick.”
“You never suspected that you might be sick also, Sabine?”
I look him straight in his squinty eyes. “Never.”
For long minutes, he doesn’t do or say anything. Then finally he nods, reaches across the table, and clicks the recorder off, neat as a punctuation mark. The interrogation is over.
20
Two weeks later, there's a book sitting on my desk at work. It's a prayer book—neat and small, easy to carry. The cover is a soft blue, like the healer outfits. Innocent until opened.
My heart beats faster, my instincts kicking in, sensing danger. Even though it’s just a book.
I don't open it. Instead, I push it aside and run through my usual morning tasks, ignoring the burn of curiosity in the pit of my stomach. A part of me doesn’t want to acknowledge the book at all, since I’d rather avoid these games.
At lunch, I reluctantly carry the thing with me and pretend to be reading between bites of my sandwich. All I’m really doing is flipping through and scanning the pages, searching for an explanation. There are soft pencil marks underlining certain words, so faint I almost miss them. I don’t have the time to decipher it, but there’s definitely a message hidden in here. A reminder that someone knows my truth—a threat.
The little book feels heavy in my pocket when I walk back to my desk after lunch, and I know I won't be able to avoid this forever.
They know I’m not cured.
The girl with the black bob, the one I've learned is named Sloane, still works in the building and our paths cross daily. Our eyes will meet, and I'll get this uncomfortable feeling, like she's trying to silently warn me of something. Same thing with George, if we pass each other on the street, those brooding dark eyes cutting straight through.
After Alexei left, I thought the worst was over. What more could they want? But Sloane evidently dropped this on my desk for me to find, which means there’s more.
∆∆∆
At home that evening, I wait for my stepfather to leave for church. He has rehearsals, since he joined the choir, filling in for the new vacancies.
The peacekeeper goes with him.
I wait a few minutes after they’ve left, before shuffling to the study. I close the door firmly shut. Standing in this room, I remember Alexei behind this desk, his head bent over his work, shiny metallic blonde, the shelves of books all around.
There’s a lingering sadness when I sit in the same seat as him, his absence an ever-present ghost in the house.
I force myself to focus, pulling a clean sheet of paper and a pen from one of the drawers. I set the little prayer book flat on the desk’s surface, tentatively cracking it open, as though afraid of unleashing whatever awaits within.
I'm careful not to miss any of the pencil marks as I flip through, marking each word on my blank sheet of paper.
Once finished, I flatten the paper to inspect it. Words sit on the page, as harmless as words can be, but they seem to scream at me in their black ink.
“We will come find you. Be ready.”
If they mean to frighten me, it's worked. I slam the prayer book shut. I contemplate burning it in the fireplace, as though the book itself is responsible. With shaking hands, I crumple the page and throw it in the paper shredder.
The machine eats the words, scrambling them forever.
Once finished, I lean backwards into the soft leather of the chair and try to remember how to breathe. I feel strangely untethered without a peacekeeper in the house. More exposed. Not that long ago, I’d desperately wanted them all gone, with their gloomy black coats, suffocating us with their version of protection.
It’s stupid to want it back—one peacekeeper, in particular—and I wonder at what point did things change so drastically? What was the defining moment that turned everything inside out? I can’t even remember. It seemed to have happened in an instant, and yet in a combination of moments, until the enemy shapeshifted before my eyes.
It’s my allies, George and the uncured, who betrayed me. And this little prayer book promises more to come.
21
On Sunday, we walk to church. We stand in the pews like everyone else, and I light my candles like I’m supposed to. Maybe I should light three, one for my biological father, but I don’t.
There are less peacekeepers among us now. Only a few black coats. The squinty-eyed one is already gone, now we’ve proven not to be a threat.
They’re moving on, curing people in a different place.
It's while walking back to my seat to rejoin my stepfather that my eye catches on a familiar face in the crowd.
I didn't expect anything on a Sunday. Not during a service. The prayer book should have been a clue, but I never made the connection.
George won’t take his eyes off me, but I act like I don’t notice him, quietly resuming my spot next to my stepfather.
Except his presence still looms at my back.
When the service ends and everyone stands, I steal a glance behind me, and George points to the floor.
The basement.
When the church doors open, a rush of fresh air pours in and everyone starts filing out, people crowding the aisles. George's tall figure disappears among them.
I turn to my stepfather. “I’ll meet you back at home.”
“Where are you going?”
“I just have to go to the bathroom real quick. Go ahead, I’ll catch up.”
He nods and I break away from the crowd, heading towards the stairs.
The basement of the church houses a community hall, but today all the tables are folded and stacked against the walls, leaving nothing but a large vacant space, old and forgotten. Dust clings to every surface and an old ceiling lamp softly buzzes overhead.
I don’t see anyone, but the faint aroma of cigarettes clings to the air, growing stronger near the back of the room, where the bathrooms are.
Chills break out over my arms. The further away I get from the exits, the more claustrophobic I feel. If they try anything, I’ll be trapped, but I have no choice. They're not going to let this go.
Cee is the one standing by the sinks, but Markai can’t be far. I hang by the door, reluctant to go any further, even though I’m pretty sure it won’t help any.
The lights in here are soft, muted. As if they want this space to occupy the same tranquility as the rest of the building. The walls and floors are matte black, the mirrors are surrounded by shimmery lights, painting the room a gentle blueish.
Cee doesn’t look up as she washes her hands. Her brown hair is scraped back against her scalp extra tightly, but she runs her wet hands over it, flattening it further, and when wet, it takes on a hint of electric blue in this light.
Whereas mine maintains its stubborn red.
In the mirror, her gaze collides with mine. Seeing our reflections side by side like this, our differences stand out starkly. Her edges are sharp where mine are soft. Her eyebrows are dark stabs above a strong pair of eyes, steady and determined as the rest of her, her jawbone and shoulders jutting out, as though bracing herself for a fight.
“We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“You know what.” She turns off the tap, flicks the water onto the floor, little drops scattering across the tiles.
The gesture seems especially insulting, in a church.
Someone clears their throat from just outside the door, letting us know they're here. Markai.
I'm trapped.
“How much did you tell them?” Cee asks.
“I didn’t tell them anything.”
“Am I supposed to believe that?” She smiles but it looks like a
grimace. “That peacekeeper didn’t show up, so you must have told him something. All I need to know is how much.”
The way she says it—that peacekeeper—you can hear the hatred.
I prickle defensively. “You guys told me to keep quiet, so I did.”
She ignores that. “I know you didn’t give them our meeting spot. The peacekeepers would have raided it by now. But we’re being watched, so you gave up some names.”
I shake my head. “All I did was stop Alexei from getting to the bridge on time. I didn’t even tell him why.”
She winces slightly at his name, then her eyes narrow. “Don’t lie.”
The door bangs open and the smell of smoke wafts over to me. Markai steps forward, his reflection joining ours in the mirror, long hair still clinging to the sides of his face, slightly damp with a natural greasiness, unruly brows knit tight together. “This is taking too long. Is she not talking?”
“Give her another minute,” Cee says.
Caught between them, I laugh, mostly from nerves. “What? What do you think you’re going to do?”
They’ve already proven they’re not above blowing people up.
Markai cracks his knuckles, and I want to laugh again. The tension is getting to my head.
“My stepfather will be waiting at home,” I say. “He’ll notice if I don’t come back soon.”
Cee shrugs. “I’m sure we can come up with an excuse for that.”
Despite everything else going on, these are the words that worry me the most. They’re really not going to let me walk out of here, are they?
Markai speaks next. “George assured us you were meant to be a part of the group, so we chose to trust you.”
I look at him, my voice taking on an edge of desperation. “I didn’t say anything, to anyone.”
“Then why are we being followed?” Cee snaps at me, teeth flashing. “How do they know who to look for?”
I’m getting annoyed. “I don’t know, maybe because you blew up a bridge?”
Cee’s brows twitch up her forehead and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. She nods her head to Markai, and he moves on me fast, latching his hand around my arm, twisting it hard. I don't expect it to hurt as much as it does, my skin pinched and stinging in his grip, his fingers wrapping snugly around the bone.
My arm seems awfully delicate, all of a sudden. Like he could snap it with his big hand. His wrist looks double the size of mine.
He hadn't seemed this scary, the first time I met him. Maybe because George was there. George makes everyone look smaller, in comparison.
Markai's other hand comes forward, palm up. “Take your tablet out.”
I do as I’m asked, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my personal tablet. The glass feels thin and fragile, despite being my only weapon—my only chance to call someone if this goes seriously wrong.
“Send a message to your stepfather that you’re going to be home late. Show me the message when you’re done.”
I stare at the device in my palm and the room tilts. They’re leaving me no choice. My thumb slides over the screen, opening the messaging app and typing out a few words. Markai watches from over my shoulder until I’ve pressed send.
Then he takes the device from me. I’m left clutching air—my last chance for help slipping through my fingers.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Neither of them answers.
∆∆∆
They take me to the blue house where we first met, down to the room with the single lightbulb. They put me in a chair and bind my hands together with a rope. It digs into my skin and threatens to cut off my circulation. My fingers feel fuzzy after just a few minutes.
Cee is more composed, but Markai is pacing, his thumb in his mouth so he can chew on the nail.
The fear is starting to dissipate, replaced with something more like anger. “If I’d told anyone, they would have arrested you.”
Markai continues to pace. Cee checks her smartwatch and her eyes dart to the door.
“Are we waiting for someone?” I ask, but again, no one answers.
A patch of sunlight slants through the window, sliding down the wall as time passes. The two of them sit at the other end of the table, going over pages, shuffling and rustling them. Paper is harder to track than technology.
They make sure I can’t see what they’re doing, keeping everything angled just right.
It must be several hours before there's the sound of a truck outside, wheels on gravel, followed by a door slamming shut. All three of us turn towards the noise. Heavy footsteps come down the stairs, and when the door opens, it’s George. He looks impossibly tall down here, he has to duck a little.
His head of thick hair and his dark eyes are exactly as they always have been, and my heart clenches. How did I end up here like this? How can your enemy wear the face of a boy you once loved?
Rory comes to mind. What would she say, if she saw him right now, keeping me prisoner?
George at least has the decency to look sorry, his eyes cast to the floor.
“Is it all ready?” Cee asks him, and he nods.
They might be talking about me, they might not. Nothing more is said aloud, but I already know it's something bad.
George turns towards me, meeting my eye for the first time. When he steps into the light, I can see a vein in his temple, pulsing softly. Perspiration clings to his forehead and he runs his hand over, to wipe away the evidence.
It makes me nervous, seeing him nervous.
Markai leans in the corner and lights a cigarette with a match. He drops the match to the floor and kills the flame with his boot.
Right now, I feel like that flame, getting crushed under his foot.
I shuffle uncomfortably in my seat, and Markai’s mouth twitches, like he enjoys seeing me squirm. My wrists ache in their bindings.
I glance up at George. “What are you planning to do?”
“We can't have you sabotaging things again.” He manages to keep his voice even, his expression flat. It’s not that hard of a trick. Anyone who is used to pretending to be cured can pull that off.
“But I don't even know anything,” I say uselessly.
“We know you talked,” Cee says. Now we’re both repeating ourselves. A pair of broken records, us two. “All we need are the names you gave.”
I guess that’s why I’m here. They need to know who is compromised and who isn't. Which means they must be planning something else—another attack?
George leans closer, his eyes sad. “Please, Sabine.”
“I’m telling the truth,” I say.
Markai groans. “Enough of this.”
He drops the cigarette and stubs that out, too. One slam of his boot, and I feel myself shrink. He moves forward in a cloud of smoke, the awful scent of it filling my nose, and pushes George out of the way.
He does it fast. Raising his hand and slapping me across the face in a single, clean motion. I rattle in my chair, a gasp ripping from my throat. The impact stings, but only for a second. Then my cheeks burn hot, although it might be from embarrassment more than anything.
George whips toward Markai and shoves him backwards, one arm pinned against his chest. “What the hell!”
Markai just pushes him off and laughs his awful laugh, the sound of it booming off the walls. “We’ve already tried asking her nicely.”
George places himself between the two of us. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
I stare at them all. This is something else. These people aren’t just uncured. Markai looks like he might have the sickness, like he might be on the edge. George looks defeated, as if he knows they’ve gone too far, but I guess there’s no going back for him. Cee looks determined to the point of obsession.
Together, they make a very dangerous team, and a small part of me feels like maybe the government is right—maybe human beings need to be cured.
Just maybe not the way they’re doing it.
George brushes himse
lf off, attempts to calm down. He looks at me with those rich eyes of his. “Why did you do it? You ruined our one chance.”
I shake my head. “All I did was stop him from leaving—stop him from getting to the bridge on time.”
“Yes.” He’s pretending to believe me. “But why? You saw what they did to Rory.”
It’s a low blow but I hold my ground. “Yes, I’ve seen her.”
“Then how could you?”
It’s important for me to explain myself, I can see that. At least to George. Markai looks bored, and Cee looks like she’s already offended by my answer, regardless of what it might be.
I take a breath, shuffling the words in my mind, trying to make them fit in the right order. “I have to hold on to whatever humanity I have left.”
George is the one who looks offended, in the end.
Cee just sneers. “What did they promise you? Did they offer you something in exchange for information?”
She still doesn’t believe me.
“I think she’s telling the truth,” George says after a moment, his voice small. I’ve never heard him sound so small. I thought he was incapable of it.
“You,” Markai hisses, pointing an accusatory finger at George, “you’re the reason we’re in this mess in the first place. You promised she could be trusted.”
George opens his mouth to retort but Cee cuts them both off.
“We’re running out of time here, guys.”
I check the spot of sunlight on the wall. There’s just a sliver of it left, glowing in a soft shade of pink. It’s getting late, it’ll be dark soon.
“You think we should go ahead? Even though…” Markai doesn’t finish, just looks at me.
I’m starting to piece things together. “You’re trying to leave the collective?”
All three of them turn in my direction. Cee shoots a glare at Markai, as if it’s his fault I figured it out.
It makes sense. They need to know who can safely make it through the checkpoints. You can’t get through without scanning your identification card, and if you’ve been flagged in the system, peacekeepers will immediately come pick you up.