“THEY’RE the good guys,” assured Sean.
Slowly, Chase brought the gun down. He and Tucker jumped to the concrete floor and did a quick search before the rest of us followed.
“Welcome to Greeneville,” said the man with dark skin. “Or what’s left of it anyway. I’m Marco, and this is my esteemed colleague, Polo.”
I scoffed, noticing that their name badges had been removed.
Some of the boys at the Wayland Inn had talked about Greeneville. As with most of the smaller U.S. cities, the town’s population had dwindled during the War—no jobs. People had forsaken their homes for the larger cities where they could at least access resources like soup kitchens.
As I looked around I found my earlier assessment had been correct. We’d been brought in through the loading docks to a factory floor, where several monstrous silver machines waited, dormant. A black rubber belt stuck out like a tongue from a gaping hole in the machine on the left, and upon it at even intervals rested neat stacks of paper, waiting to be loaded into various sized boxes near where we’d parked.
“The lovely Sister has informed us that y’all are taking the Tubman express to the safe house,” said Polo. “Feel free to use the amenities, grab a delightful Horizons bottled water, and make yourself at home.”
“Such hosts.” Cara winked at Marco as she slid by them into a small office where the water was located. Polo whistled, an appreciative gaze trailing after her.
“How long until the carrier returns?” asked Chase.
Marco’s shoulders fell. “They’re in such a hurry to leave, Polo.”
Polo nodded somberly. “Is it me? Am I unlikeable, Marco?”
“You do smell a bit…”
“Later today?” Chase pressed.
“Oh no.” Marco shook his head. “He was just through. Tomorrow morning at the earliest. Besides, you can’t make it across the Red Zone border before curfew. Such an attempt would mean certain death.”
“So dramatic,” chided Polo.
Chase and I shared a glance; we’d tried to cross into a Red Zone once, and nearly been arrested. If not for Chase’s smooth talking, we might not have made it through.
I stepped closer to the black belt, leaning over the nearest stack of papers.
“Look,” I whispered to Chase. Statute Circulars. We had come to an MM Statute Printing Plant. I thought of all the times I’d seen them—at school, on the windows of businesses, even on my own front door when my mother and I had been arrested. I wondered if they’d all come from here.
“We’re spending the night?” Tucker asked with a sigh.
“I can try to find you a pillow,” offered Marco.
“I’m not staying the night,” said Sean. “I’m taking the truck to Chicago.”
“We’re taking the truck to Chicago,” I corrected.
A small grin fought its way through his exhaustion. His face was paler than usual, and his eyes were bloodshot. When he turned to the side, I could see the copper streaks that had soaked through the back of his uniform—he hadn’t yet attended to his burns from the fire. Feeling the weight of Chase’s stare, I climbed back into the truck and searched for the first-aid kit.
“Wrong,” sang Polo. “You won’t make Chicago before nightfall and Horizons drivers have to obey the curfew. Only soldiers can go out after dark.” He popped his collar importantly.
Sean blinked, obviously having forgotten this information. He sighed in frustration. I found the first-aid kit behind one of the boxes and sat on the bumper, motioning for him to sit beside me.
“Since we’re all sharing,” said Cara, returning from the office with several plastic bottles cradled in her arms, “I’m cutting out. I’ve got family in town. My cousin lives here.”
My brows knitted together. I’d never heard she had family here, but then, I didn’t know she had family anywhere—we’d never talked about that. I worried the circular medallion around my neck, feeling the smooth, puckered flesh beneath it had seared into my skin. It stung fiercely, and reminded me of how she’d disappeared from the Wayland Inn during the fire, how she and Tubman had separated sometime after they’d left with the truck full of refugees. Like Tucker, I had a grim feeling she wasn’t telling us everything.
She passed me a bottle of water, which I guzzled, spilling streams of it down my chin. I wasn’t sure anything had ever tasted so good. The others followed Marco and Polo, who announced that there was food in their office.
Sean had a hard time removing his arms from the Horizons uniform, so I helped, cringing when the fabric stuck to his back. He sat bolt upright, the heat wafting off his skin.
“I can clean it, but we don’t have a big enough bandage,” I said, fighting the nausea. An angry red welt spanned from his shoulder to the opposite side of his waist, surrounded by smaller cuts and burns. Some of the skin had already been sloughed away when he’d removed his shirt.
“It looks like something fell on you.” I could still feel the burst of flames when the ceiling had nearly toppled on my head.
“Honestly I don’t remember. I guess that’s probably better.” With effort that had nothing to do with physical pain, he twisted so that he could look into my face.
“I never should have let you guys leave without me,” he said.
Gently, I cleaned his back with a damp rag. The black film wiped away, making his injuries less monstrous. I couldn’t help but think about how Chase’s shoulders were wider, how he, too, had a scar, one I didn’t know the origin of, that looked like the swipe of a giant set of claws from the side of his ribs to his spine.
“I know why you did.” Tucker had information on Rebecca—at least that was what Sean thought. If I’d thought someone had information on Chase, I would have stayed, too.
Sean looked through the glass office window at my mother’s killer. “Can I trust him?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“I don’t know,” I said finally, apologizing when he winced.
Chase came up beside us. His gaze flickered to mine, just for a moment, but I concentrated on the task. “Hell of a burn,” he commented.
“Thanks,” Sean said tightly. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Chase stood silently for some time, watching me work, and I chewed my lip, remembering how stupid I’d been to kiss him in the truck.
Finally he said, “We should change the plates on the truck first thing tomorrow.”
I smiled as he walked away.
“WHOA.” Billy’s voice came from within the office, just as I was helping Sean back into his shirt. “They hooked you up! I had to build a machine out of spare parts and cruiser panels to access the mainframe.”
As I approached, I saw the source of Billy’s fascination: a computer, scanning equipment, and a printer atop a wooden desk. A shoulder-high gun safe was in the back corner, beneath a flat window revealing the bright blue afternoon sky. I shied away from the open area instinctively.
“Only the best for the FBR,” said Marco. Several people chuckled. It took a few seconds to realize he wasn’t joking.
“Don’t freak out.” Cara smirked. “They’re still on the payroll.”
“Soldiers and resistance?” I clarified.
“Article Nine, at your service,” said Polo, referencing the new Statute that would punish rebels to the full extent of the law.
“Turncoats,” grumbled Tucker. He snorted when every eye shot to him, and raised his hands in surrender. “Tough crowd. Not like any of us are any better.”
“Then why are you here?”
Sean laughed uncomfortably from the doorway. Obviously Tucker had told him nothing of why we hated each other.
“It was a joke,” he said. “A bad one.”
Was it just a joke? Directing Tucker to the largest safe house on the Eastern Seaboard felt like pulling the pin out of a grenade and throwing it into a playground. I felt a wave of responsibility that I should somehow stop him, but how could I, after he’d saved Sean and me in the fire?
Marco was eyeing me curiously. “You look familiar,” he said, taking a seat behind the desk.
“A lot of people say that.” I twisted the gold band around my ring finger.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Marco. “Hey, Polo, come look at this.” Needing to see exactly what they did, I skirted around the desk for a better look at the screen.
It was my picture from the reformatory that had been posted around the Square. My eyes were red and swollen from crying after the arrest, and my hair was a natural brown and long past my shoulders. I still had stretches in my school uniform from where Beth had tried to pull me away from the soldiers. I read the caption just below it, but it didn’t scare me as it had before. I guess the shock had worn off.
Ember Miller, it said. ARTICLE 5. Wanted in association with Region Two-fifteen sniper murders. My stats and charges were listed below.
“I figured they’d already closed your case,” said Polo conversationally.
“Oh, don’t play coy,” said Marco, big eyes bugging at me. “If I print out your photo, will you give me your autograph?”
I couldn’t help but laugh at how genuinely awestruck he sounded.
“Make sure you sign it Love, Sniper,” said Cara. The chill in her tone melted my smile.
“She’s not the sniper,” Chase insisted. “She doesn’t know the sniper. She’s being framed.”
He was right to put a stop to it; I’d seen what happened to the people who gave the MM information about me and it was no laughing matter.
“Told you,” said Polo, resigned. He shoved Marco’s shoulder. “You know, I met him once,” he added.
“Here we go,” groaned Marco.
“What?” Polo looked injured.
“He met this guy in Chicago like, ten years ago who said the way to break down the FBR was to go to a public place and take out one soldier at a time,” explained Marco. “As if no one’s ever had that idea before.”
“It was like… four… or five years ago,” Polo pointed out. “And anyway, he was tough. He’d fought overseas, before the War. He showed up at the FBR enlistment office in old army fatigues, spouting all this stuff about how President Scarboro and his Restart America buddies were behind the attacks.”
“What?” I stole another bottle of water. “Insurgents were behind the attacks.” I’d memorized the word from the news reports we’d watched in my living room, but it wasn’t until high school that I learned what it actually meant.
The people who had bombed the major cities weren’t terrorists from a foreign land, though many suspected that’s where they’d gotten their support. They were American citizens. They were born and raised in our towns, in our schools, and held jobs that weren’t particularly special.
But they were poor, even though they were educated, and even though they worked. They lived like my mother and I did, paycheck to paycheck, and when the money wasn’t coming in, on what assistance they could find. One of the Insurgents was the manager of a restaurant—a normal looking guy with a receding hairline—and when he gave his statement before execution he said that he was tired of sleeping in the back of the kitchen, feeding his kids rich people’s scraps. He just wanted to level the playing field.
My mother told me once that the world was like her favorite singer, an overly busty blonde with a tiny waist. It was just a matter of time before her middle was stretched too thin and she broke in half.
And that’s what the Insurgents had done. They’d broken the world in half. They’d hit every major city on the coasts, and some of the big ones in the middle, too—like Chicago and Dallas—and when it was done, nobody was rich, and nobody trusted anyone.
That was when Scarboro became president. Maybe before people thought his rigid stance on government control was a joke, but they didn’t anymore. It wasn’t two months after he’d taken office that the military branches—what were left of them—were relieved of duty, and the Reformation Act came into effect. It was said that Reinhardt, the man he’d named the Chief of Reformation—the man who had nearly been assassinated while we’d been in Knoxville—was responsible for the changes, including the creation of the Moral Statutes.
Polo leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “Yes, but how did the Insurgents get their bombs?”
“Same way we get our guns,” said Sean, although he didn’t sound so sure. “They stole them. Or bought them on the underground.”
“That’s a lot of firepower,” said Polo, conspiracy brightening his eyes. “I’m not saying it’s true, but this guy—he had a point. Scarboro and his pal Reinhardt were backed by Restart, and Restart had money. Tons of money. Lots of people believed in their cause, too—getting rid of the division between religion and the government, bringing back those old-fashioned values. Think about it. He sets up the crash, then swoops in to save the day.”
“Ridiculous,” said Tucker dismissively.
Polo laughed. “The Insurgents effectively brought down our nation. I’ve yet to see Three make that kind of stand.”
“What do you know about Three?” I asked.
“What does anyone know about Three?” Cara said cynically.
“Heard they operate out of the safe house.” Polo winked at me. “Sure you don’t want to wait for Tubman?”
I did feel the sudden urge to wait for the carrier and find out more about these elusive resistance leaders. Beside me, Chase made a noise halfway between a groan and a sigh. He’d thought the safe house would be safe, but if the largest resistance organization in the country was there, it couldn’t possibly be. I glanced back at him, noting how quiet he’d been through this conversation.
“I heard they operate from a Bureau base,” said Billy.
“No one knows,” said Marco. “Honestly, they’re probably the ones that started this whole sniper rumor anyway.”
I felt my eyes narrow. Had he been in the Square during the last attack, I doubted he’d be referring to it as a rumor.
“Marco’s a skeptic,” said Polo, waving him off. “He thinks the whole thing’s a crock. That those soldiers were done by their own troops and the Chief of Reformation’s just looking to cover it up.”
“Which is more likely than the sniper being some random tattooed protester,” argued Marco.
“He did have a tattoo on his neck,” Polo admitted. “I mean, who does that?”
“The sniper, apparently,” said Sean.
Polo pointed at him. “Exactly.”
“What kind of tattoo?” asked Chase suddenly. “A snake?”
His uncle had a snake tattoo on his neck, and he had been in the military. That Chase would speculate the man could be responsible for a string of murders made me even more cynical of the time Chase had spent with him before the War.
Polo frowned. “I don’t remember. Maybe. Why, you’ve met him?” Sudden excitement lit his eyes.
“There are a lot of guys with tattoos out there,” evaded Chase.
“No way it was soldiers. It had to be a sniper,” Billy interrupted. “Cara was at the draft in Knoxville when he hit. Tell them, Cara.”
One blond brow arched. “They’re saying it was someone in a uniform, you know,” she said. “A mole. Sort of like you boys. I’d be careful if I were you.”
Marco and Polo were speechless.
“I think we’ve had enough bedtime stories to give everyone nightmares,” Marco announced finally, his eyes even buggier than before. With that, he stepped on the office chair and lifted a slat from the ceiling. Hidden in the rafters was a lumpy trash bag, which he tossed down to his partner.
“Santa Claus has arrived,” announced Polo. Clothes were doled out from within, and I was given some old dusty jeans and a sweatshirt. Both were big enough to fit two of me, but I was glad to get out of my smoke-drenched wardrobe.
Tucker pulled off his shirt right in front of everyone, and I immediately looked away. I had no desire to see what he looked like under his clothes, nor did I want him to see me change. It didn’t help when Chase checked to see if I was watching.
I retreated into the single-stall bathroom. The light flickered, and the door didn’t lock, so I pushed the trash can in front of it. My mind was still spinning with Marco’s and Polo’s claims—about the War, and the president, and the mysterious Three. When I peeled off my singed pants something clattered to the floor. I crouched beneath the sink to see what had fallen and retrieved the copper cartridge I’d found under the front seat of the Horizons truck at East End Auto. With everything that had happened, I’d forgotten all about it.
Someone knocked, and I jumped up, stuffing my legs into the borrowed jeans.
“Just a second!” I called, but Cara was already forcing her way in. Apparently the trash can wasn’t enough of a hint that I’d wanted some privacy.
“Girls only,” she called over her shoulder to whoever waited behind, then slammed the door. “What do you got there?” she asked, pointing to the fist I’d clenched to my chest.
“Oh.” I opened my hand reluctantly. “Just something I found.”
Cara’s mouth rounded in surprise.
“Where’d you get that?”
I shrugged, and when my hand moved, her eyes followed.
“Riggins thought it was you,” she said in a strange voice. “He told me, at the garage in Knoxville. After you went missing on the mission.”
I winced. “Yeah, I know.” He’d died thinking it was me.
“He says you’ve gone missing a lot.”
I balked at that. She went missing a lot. Chase and I had been pulled apart in the Square during the attack, but she’d been separated from Lincoln and Houston as well. And yet no one, not even paranoid Riggins, questioned her whereabouts.
She plucked the bullet from my palm, holding it close to her body as she admired it. Again I considered how much larger it was than the standard rounds the resistance and the soldiers used.
“Why aren’t you at the safe house?” I asked, something inside telling me to tread carefully. “I thought you said Sisters could get through the highway lockdown.”
She turned her hips, still mesmerized by the cartridge. Her blue woolen skirt fanned from side to side.
“Looks like I was wrong.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “Sarah and that family with the baby needed a doctor. Did they get caught?”
Her tongue skimmed along the edge of her teeth. “Are you suggesting I jumped ship?”
My blood heated. “You didn’t exactly stick around to help when the motel was burning to the ground.”
She laughed, but it felt forced. “Self-preservation. Not all of us are martyrs.”
“If it was self-preservation, what were you doing talking to that soldier?” I pictured her standing before the flames, the man in uniform urging her to back up.
For a moment she seemed confused, and then shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe he was looking for a date.”
“Why can’t you just answer the question?”
She smiled coldly, eyes like blue crystals. “Look, the soldier at the fire thought I was a Sister, and asked me to help clear the area. As for Tubman, we made it to the roadblock and saw a sign that only FBR would be allowed past. I bailed before anyone saw me. But since you’re so concerned about your precious little party favor, relax. I hid off the side of the highway and watched Tubman drive that FBR truck straight through.”
I was relieved, but no less irritated. “Why do you have to cut her down like that?”
Her look turned to exasperation as she began to disrobe.
“Please. Did you see her? She had it coming. You can’t put wrapping paper on a present and expect no one to rip it off.”
“You’re blaming her?”
“I would if she wore that dress to a social.”
A social. That was what Sarah had called it, too, back in Tent City. A party for all the lonely soldiers who’d dedicated themselves to the cause.
I kept my arms pinned to my sides so I didn’t throttle her. Blaming Sarah for what others had done to her was like saying my mother deserved death because she’d broken a Statute. Like saying Billy’s mom had been right in selling her own son for cash.
She pulled off her Sisters of Salvation blouse, and as she slipped into a faded black sweatshirt, I caught sight of three parallel scars just below her collarbone—scars not unlike those I had given Tucker. She made a point of quickly hiding them, and despite myself, I suddenly found myself feeling sorry for her. Apparently she wasn’t made of steel. Someone, at some point, had been able to hurt her.
“Hey,” she said as I placed my hand on the door in preparation to leave. “Thank you. For what you’ve done.”
I turned back to face her, surprised by the smallness in her voice. It took a full beat to realize what she was talking about, and when I did I nearly groaned.
“Cara, Riggins was wrong. I’m not who he thought I was. I didn’t shoot anybody.”
“I know,” she said. But I wasn’t sure she believed me.
I had more important reasons to be on the defensive. I gathered my clothes and returned to the factory floor, and Tucker Morris.
WHEN I emerged, Chase was leaning against the wall outside the door, arms crossed, scowling across the station at the Horizons truck. I smoothed down the sweatshirt and cuffed the ends of the pants four times before they finally reached my heels. I’d forgotten my arms were still smeared with dried blood and soot, and while I examined them he combed a tentative hand through my hair. Instinct had me leaning into his touch, but I frowned when he revealed a fistful of ash. I would have given my next meal for a shower.
“Billy’s checking the mainframe for new arrests,” he said, crossing his arms again as Tucker’s shadow appeared in the back of the truck.
“Has he found anything yet?” It seemed callous, but if Wallace hadn’t made it out of Knoxville, I hoped he’d gone down with the Wayland Inn. I knew what awaited him in the holding cells should he have been captured.
“Nothing new.” Chase hesitated. “Lincoln’s name was Anthony Sullivan. I never knew that.”
The room silenced. Sean looked up from where he stood with Marco and Polo outside a small storage room across from the truck. From the look on his face, he, too, was surprised. Some people went by nicknames so we couldn’t get too close, but Chase had just torn that down. He’d made Lincoln more human, his loss even more devastating.
The mood, already tense, turned somber fast.
Tucker, hopping down from the back of the truck, lifted two bottles of whiskey. “Might as well make the most of being stranded.”
No one objected.
Cara, who’d emerged from the bathroom behind me, said, “You boys got any cups?”
Marco disappeared into the storage room and returned with a tower of paper cups. Tucker popped the top on a bottle of whiskey and poured a liberal amount into each. While we formed a circle behind the truck, I contemplated how the one and only drink I’d ever had was when Beth and I had snuck some wine from my mother’s contraband supply in the ninth grade. I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage a half cup of whiskey on a nearly empty stomach.
“Someone should say something,” mumbled Sean.
The others looked at Chase expectantly. Not Cara, who had known Lincoln longer, but Chase.
Wallace’s voice echoed through my head. “You had it, Jennings. You had it, and you threw it away.” I’d thought at the time he was just disappointed to lose a good soldier, but it was more than that. He’d seen Chase as a leader.
I sloshed the amber liquid around the cup. Wallace was right; Chase was good in times of crisis. All the time I’d spent fighting him after he’d rescued me from reform school seemed like wasted energy now.
As Chase raised his cup, I felt a wave of uncertainty. What were you supposed to say at funerals? We didn’t even know if Lincoln had family.
“To Lin—Anthony,” Chase said, clearing his throat. “He was a good soldier in… in the fights that mattered.”
This is the only fight that matters. The one we fight today.
“To anyone else stuck in that building, too,” he added. “Cats included.”
Billy gave a wet hiccup, his shoulders rounding. Cara wiped her eyes on her sleeve and leaned against Sean, who patted her shoulder, looking grim. Marco bowed his head, lips moving in a silent prayer.
The air within the printing plant grew heavy. Loss after loss surrounded us, so that the space seemed to thicken with their ghosts. We remembered our loved ones—those we weren’t strong enough to name. We remembered why we were fighting back.
I missed my mother so much it hurt.
My gaze found Tucker’s across the circle. His shoulders were heaving, like he’d just run a mile, and all I knew in that moment was that I didn’t want to know what he was thinking. Anticipating the taste with a cringe, I brought the cup to my lips.
“Wait,” said Tucker. “While we’re on it. To… to the people we… the person I…” His head rolled back and he looked up, of all places, for inspiration.
I lowered the cup. A clock from the office ticked by each second.
“Tucker,” Chase warned. “Don’t.”
My whole body tensed in anticipation. Tucker stole a quick breath and met my gaze.
“I’m sorry, Ember.”
The peace and power of the moment shattered, and I was horrified. How dare you. That was all I could think. How dare you.
“You’re sorry,” I repeated. I saw him, only him, as a haze of red blocked the others out.
In one quick motion he downed the shot, hissing at the sting. I hadn’t realized I’d dropped mine until Billy bent down to pick up the cup.
“Ember.” I shook Chase’s hand off my shoulder. I was closer to Tucker now, though I hadn’t even felt my feet move.
“You want to apologize?”
I couldn’t have heard him right. He was incapable of remorse. I’m a good soldier, he told me after he’d admitted his crime. I did what needed to be done.
Tucker stepped back, tapped the empty cup against his leg. His cheeks were flushed.
“You want to drink to her, Tucker? Is that what you were thinking?”
“Easy, girl,” said Cara.
“Say her name,” I demanded. “If you’re so sorry.”
He didn’t.
“You don’t even know it, do you? You don’t even know her name.”
I pushed him hard, and he staggered into the bumper of the truck. I wanted to kill him with my bare hands.
“That’s enough.” Chase was between us now, trying to block me from Tucker.
“Her name was Lori Whittman!” I shouted. “That was her name! That was my mother’s name!”
I saw Tucker’s face, sallow and shocked, for one instant before Chase caught me around the waist and hoisted me over his shoulder.
“Let go of me!”
“Cool off,” he said.
I kicked him and punched his back and only when my teeth sunk into his shoulder did he toss me down. We were in the storage room, surrounded by weak metal shelves holding tool boxes and printer paper and boxes of ink. He wheeled around and slammed the door shut.
“If you value your life at all, you’d better turn right back around,” I hissed, fists clenched.
“I’m not leaving.” To make his point, he placed both hands on the shelves on either side of the door. He’d taught me to always keep my exits open, and here he was, blocking them off.
A noise snuck up my throat, halfway between a groan and a growl. I paced around the tight circle, keeping out of reach, so furious at Tucker, at Cara, at everything, I couldn’t even speak.
He blocked out the single overhead bulb, and all that remained were the shadows silhouetting his face.
“You can’t let him get to you,” he said.
I slammed to a halt. “So you’re on his side now?”
A vein on his neck jumped.
“I’m on your side,” he said. “I’m always on your side.”
“Doesn’t feel that way.” I regretted it even as I said it, and resumed my pace.
He shook his head. “I don’t know what Tucker’s doing here, but it can’t be an accident. This is what he does. He digs his way in and gets under your skin. And before you know it, he’s ripped your life apart.”
My shoulders jerked back, tall and defiant.
“You think I don’t know that?”
But my voice shook because even though I did, I’d still fallen into the Tucker trap. I’d kissed Chase to hurt him. I’d gotten information about Rebecca in the holding cells, but at his price. He’d been discharged now, but what if this was all part of the plan? What if this—the carriers, the safe house, the soldiers fighting for the resistance—was what he’d wanted?
“I didn’t.” Chase jammed a hand through his hair. “I trusted him once, and it cost me everything. I have to live with that, but you don’t.”
I staggered back, needing to put some distance between us. He never spoke of what he’d witnessed with my mother—not since he’d first told me—but how obvious that burden was now. I hadn’t been there for him because it hurt too much, and in doing so I’d left him alone.
I missed her. But I missed Chase, too, and somehow that was worse, having him here and missing him. Seeing him every day and feeling a world apart.
“You didn’t lose everything,” I said.
He looked up, and moved toward me slowly, and the look of surprise in his face was enough to break my heart.
“Neither did you,” he said quietly.
The tears came at last. Salty and hot, yet somehow cool and cleansing, too. He didn’t wipe them away, but traced them gently with his fingertips.
Someone knocked at the door.
I was jolted back to reality, to the checkpoint, and Tucker Morris, and the things I’d said to him outside. Chase was right; Tucker had gotten under my skin, and it wouldn’t happen again.
When my eyes were dry, Chase opened the door.
Sean was standing outside, looking sheepish.
“So.” He scratched his neck. “I didn’t know it was him—Tucker—that, you know. You believe me, right?”
I nodded.
“You could have said something,” he added, a little injured. He was too far away to have this kind of conversation, which made him feel all the more distant.
“I’m not going to freak out and stab you or anything,” I muttered.
“Oh, good.” As if waiting for permission, he stepped forward and pulled me into his arms. I tucked my chin over his shoulder, careful not to touch his burned back. I felt stronger with both Chase and him at my side.
“Notice how my hands are above the waist,” I heard him say to Chase, who snorted in response.
Before pulling away, he said, “Something’s come up.”
“What?” Chase edged beside me.
“It’s weird. Probably nothing, but you’ll want to hear it.”
We moved wordlessly past the printing machines toward the office, not running into Cara or Tucker. Maybe Cara really had left to see her cousin. Maybe Tucker had magically disappeared. That would be fine by me.
Billy was sitting on the desk with Marco and Polo. When he saw me, he jumped off, glancing between us as though one of us might combust. I forced my chin up, but wanted badly to blend in with the walls.
“I can’t believe—”
“What happened?” interrupted Chase. I gave him a small, grateful smile.
“Okay, so here’s the thing,” began Marco. “You say Lori Whittman, and I say to Polo here, ‘Lori Whittman. Sounds familiar, right?’”
“And I say, ‘Yes, Marco, sounds real familiar.’ And so we come back to the office, and I remember. Last week the carrier from Chicago comes through, saying he’s stopped at a new checkpoint on the way.”
My heart was beating hard, anxious to know where this was going.
“And your friend Sean here remembers that you’re from Louisville,” said Marco. “And I say, ‘That’s where the carrier stopped!’”
“How does Lori Whittman tie into it?” Chase asked when I couldn’t find the words.
“She’s the one!” said Billy, picking up a scrap of paper. “She’s the one that set up the checkpoint in Louisville. The Chicago carrier even wrote down the address so Marco and Polo could see if it was being scouted by the Bureau. Fourteen-fifty Ewing Avenue.”
My knees gave way. I barely registered the hard feel of the floor beneath me. Chase was as pale as death itself. He was right to be. He knew that place all too well.
Fourteen-fifty Ewing Avenue was my address.