“When you touched your brother, the wound on his chest worsened rather than healed.” Ali tilts her head, thoughtful. “Light is purification. Dark is destruction. They are opposites.”
Wait, wait, wait. I hurt River? My stomach curls into a ball and drops to my feet.
“Covered, covered, covered,” Ali says, her eyes glazed as she remembers the journal passage. “Look inside.”
Inside what? Myself? Well, I have!
“Our only defense—hell, our only real weapon—has been stripped from us.” Bronx bangs his head into his pillow. “We all suspect Tiffany is the culprit. Let’s find out what she did to us and fix it.”
“I’ll question her,” I announce. “I’m good at getting answers.” And it’s time.
Cole shakes his head. “My house, my interrogation.”
“Tiffany slashed Milla’s throat.” Frosty places his hand on my shoulder, squeezes. “Give her a chance.”
I still don’t turn to face him, even though I want to look into his eyes more than I want to take my next breath. His support is...well, it’s miraculous and wonderful and completely unexpected.
River strides into the room. “I second that.” His pale hair sticks out in spikes. Crimson splatters mar his cheeks and arms, his clothes are ripped and dirt-streaked, his boots caked with mud. “You haven’t seen my sister in action. You’re in for a treat.”
“It’s true.” Sometimes a girl has to toot her own horn. “When you’re good, you’re good. When you’re me, you’re better.” Toot, toot.
“Let her try.” Ali bats her lashes at Cole. “Please, Coley Poley.”
I snicker. Coley Poley?
After a moment of hesitation, Coley Poley gives a stiff nod. “Fine. Do it.”
Relief spears me. “I won’t let you down. You have my word.”
River spits out every bit of information he has on the girl. The more I know, the better prepared I’ll be.
“I’m going with you,” Frosty says. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”
First he talks and jokes with me. Then he touches me of his own free will. Now he’s worried about me? Me?
Am I being played?
“Sometime today,” Bronx says.
“Right.” Blushing—again—I stride from the room, Frosty close to my heels.
*
Tiffany is locked in an eight-by-eight cage in the basement. A cross between a prison cell and a kennel for large dogs. How appropriate. She’s unarmed and by now, she’s malnourished and weak.
I scan her new living quarters. Dim and dark, though spacious. Very little furniture, only a table and a few chairs scattered about. There are other cages lined against the wall, but they’re currently unoccupied.
Tiffany’s cage is the only one with a toilet, which is out in the open. Cameras are mounted in every corner of the room, allowing us to watch her from the safety and comfort of the security room, where numerous monitors are located.
Noticing us, Tiffany scrambles to the back of her cage. Her hair, now bleached to a yellow-white, is matted, her eyes wild. One is brown, one is blue because of a contact. Some of her makeup has been washed away by sweat, revealing freckles. Blood is crusted underneath a gash in her chin.
“You,” she snarls at me. She’s frightened. She’s angry. And she blames me for her predicament.
My gaze remains on her as I say to Frosty, “Get her out and put her in a chair.” The key to any interrogation is confidence. The moment she realizes I have nothing to lose and she has everything to gain, she’ll settle.
To my surprise, Frosty obeys without hesitation and wrenches the girl from the cage.
“Gently,” I say. Kindness goes a long way in a situation like this. “Please... Saucy Frosty.”
Hearing my choice of nicknames, he flicks me a wry gaze. I shrug. It was worth a shot. He forces Tiffany to sit—and no, he still isn’t gentle. As I scoot a chair in front of her, he remains behind her, his arms crossed over his chest. When Tiffany attempts to stand, he shoves her back down.
“Normally,” I say, “I would beat you with a hammer before asking my questions. Why don’t we skip that part and get straight to the Q and A? I’ve mopped up enough blood for one day.”
She spits at me. “I’m not telling you shit.”
With the distance between us, the glob of grossness lands to the right of my feet. I hold out my hand. “Napkin,” I say to Frosty.
He tosses me his shirt.
Do not focus on his chest.
I wipe up the spit, and stand in front of Tiffany. She glares at me, even as she flinches back. I lean forward. She tries to push me, tries to kick me, but I slap her arm, bat her leg away and climb onto her lap, penning each of her limbs beneath my thighs.
I grip her by the jaw, forcing her to face me, and clean her eyes with Frosty’s spit-dampened shirt. A creepy move, and yet also gentle, hopefully confusing her.
“Such spirit. Such stupidity.” I pat her cheek before I return to my chair. “Did you know Anima once captured my brother?”