It did not happen. There’s no way he knows, I repeat to myself again now.
A layer of sweat coats my body, gluing the thin bottom sheet to my skin. I reach out for the nightstand and curl my fingers around a tall glass of water. I drip the water, still cold from the AC, onto my neck and wrists before taking long sips to soothe my raw throat. Light from the streetlamps—or maybe the moon—sneaks through the blinds, creating strange shapes on the ceiling. I concentrate on a pattern of mismatched polygons slanted just above the door and settle back onto the platform bed.
His fingers were on my wrist for just a second in time. A single moment.
I close my eyes and focus on breathing from my abdomen—my gut, which I keep alternately ignoring and fighting. I don’t know how much time goes by like this, but when I open my eyes again, still restless and on edge, the light has transformed and reshaped itself along the wall.
I sit up and throw my damp hair behind my ears, then into a messy bun. Dragging my hands over my face, I rest my forehead on my knees. Again I reach for the glass of water, and as I lift my heavy head, I see my reflection in the floor-length mirror across the room.
Alone, in the small hours of the morning, the truth stares me straight in the face.
He knows. I don’t know how, but he knows. It’s as clear as the empty glass in my hand.
I look at the clock. 1:26 a.m.
Filled with an overpowering urgency to tell Ava everything, to confess, I slide out of bed and walk to the door. I turn the handle but find it unwilling to budge. Father locked me in.
I quiet my rising temper and grab my tablet from the dresser. I enter a passcode and attempt the handle a second time, but the door remains firmly secured. Shit. Pressing my head against the door in exasperation, I will a solution. Think.
For every locked door, there is a window.
Rallying, I stride quickly to the line of casement windows, unlock one, and push the glass open. I pop my head out and find no obvious watchers. The sleepy streets are dark and empty.
Barefoot, I step onto the first-floor roof and carefully approach the ledge. A five-yard drop. Doable if I roll on my landing. I turn, then push my feet off with a small grunt and hang from the roof by my fingertips.
Suddenly, bright lights illuminate the far end of our street.
My body reacts instantly, and I fall to the ground like a rock. I swallow back a cry, taking in the pain of landing through clenched teeth.
The headlights from the approaching cars grow closer, and I hurl myself forward, limping and stumbling, to hide behind our neighbor’s fence. I reach it just as a black military SUV stops yards in front of me, glaring spotlights from its roof aimed directly on our house.
Oh my God.
Three Texas State Guards exit the first vehicle, head to toe in riot uniforms. With the sight of their raised guns, I become sickeningly aware of exactly what those fingers on my wrist, just a second in time, have done.
Hands trembling, I type a short passcode into my tablet to set off a warning and turn to sprint for the shadows.
Father. Ava. I’m sorry.
AVA
I wake violently from a deep hum vibrating the basement. It’s the emergency alarm that signals Mira to hide below ground.
I rush up the concrete steps to the security screens in the corner and see soldiers flooding the exterior of the house, spotlights engulfing the lawn from large military vehicles. “Oh my God,” I exclaim, breathless.
The vibrating cuts off all at once, and I hear the wall recede from the passageway. I charge through the narrow tunnel, up the stairs, and stop cold. It’s not Mira who faces me—it’s our father.
Terrified, I look for my sister. “Where is she?”
He pulls me into the living room, the wall sealing behind us. Probing spotlights continue to pierce through the windows.
“What is happening?” I ask.
A loud pounding erupts from the front door. “This is the Texas State Guard!” The impatient fist strikes over and over. “Open the door immediately, or we will break it down!”
Father turns to me and quickly says, “Don’t do anything unless I tell you to.”
We’ve practiced this moment in trial drills, yet it’s somehow altogether different when it’s actually happening in real life. My blood feels like it has been set on fire, leaving my limbs with a light, useless sensation.
Father moves to unlock the door, shielding me behind him. I’m grateful—I need a moment to gather myself before the invasion. Oh God, are they here to arrest him?
Calm down. Just breathe.
The door opens with a bang, and a captain flanked by two State Guards burst into the house. They are tall and terrifying in their dark riot gear, the Texas seal reflecting bright on their chests from the spotlights.
“Dr. Darren Goodwin and Ava Goodwin, you have been accused of criminal activity on this property,” the captain formally recites. “Move aside for our inspection.”
Father all but shakes in his fury. “Who authorized this military sweep? I demand to see the warrant.”
My heart stops beating entirely when I hear Governor Roth’s voice. “I don’t require a warrant.”
The soldiers in the doorway part, allowing the governor to stand face-to-face with my father. Fear flashes in his eyes, but dies in an instant.
“Hold out your wrists,” Roth orders.
“Governor, as a respected member of your staff, I ask why a military sweep has been authorized on my home?”
A foreboding pause lingers after the question. The governor wants us to crack under his heavy silence, which presses down on our nerves and gives us time to imagine all the terrible reasons he is here right now.
He turns away from my father.
“I’m not here to give explanations.”
He nods, and the captain takes an aggressive step toward me. “Hold out your wrist,” he commands.
I look apprehensively to Father. Does he want me to comply? This is an odd request, usually only done to identify an unknown person.
“Do not look to your father, girl. Look at me,” the governor snarls, almost foaming at the mouth.
Mira lied. Something else happened in the greenhouse. Roth only has eyes for me.
I step out from behind my father and expose my wrist to the waiting captain. Whatever they are looking for, they won’t find it in my microchip.
The captain scans my chip, and a sharp ping emits from his small device. The governor swiftly examines the information that appears on the screen next to my photo: “Name: Ava Goodwin. Age: 18. Occupation: Student, Strake University. Ration Credits: 5,000. Blood Type: AB+.”
Impatient, he turns away from the device, not bothering to read the rest. With terrorizing swiftness, he bears down on me, blocking me from my father. His soldiers stand behind him, poised and ready. “Is there anyone else in this house?” he demands.
Father makes a move toward me, but the soldiers hold him back. “Governor—”
“It’s just the two of us,” I answer rapidly, setting my features into the very picture of innocent confusion. “I don’t understand. Who else would be here, sir?”
The governor studies me for a long moment, the hallway settling into another suffocating silence.
I stand there paralyzed, unable to breathe.
“Search the house.”
The two soldiers plow through my father, forcing themselves into the living room. All we can do is stand and watch as one soldier begins to shove the furniture over while the other barrels up the stairs to our room. I lift my head to the ceiling, following the deafening trail of footsteps from above.
Are you still up there, Mira?
The remaining soldier lifts up a large rug and sweeps a ground-penetrating radar around the living room floor. The governor looks over the Guard’s shoulder and scowls when the radar detects nothing but solid ground.
“The kitchen,” the governor orders the soldier.