I gulped. “Death,” I admitted. And then I clarified, “My death.”
Kid seemed to consider this. “You mean you thought that Cameron would send me to kill you?”
I nodded, though I thought that I had already made this clear enough to him.
“Really?” he insisted, his voice pitching on the last syllable.
I nodded again, but with less certainty this time.
“Wow!” He grinned from ear to ear. “Thanks!”
“So you’re not going to kill me?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“Why am I here then?”
Kid shrugged with dispassion. “Beats me. Nobody ever tells me anything around here.” He leaned
his body forward, his grin picking up again. “Were you scared of me when you thought I was
going to kill you?” he continued.
I let my shoulders relax and roll back into the comfy couch. “I guess.”
He was watching me excitedly.
“What scared you the most? Was it my voice?” he asked, his tone noticeably lowering as he said
this.
“Your driving skills,” I answered. My mouth still had the aftertaste to remind me of this.
His smile turned to disappointment. “I guess it explains why you were acting like such a freak.
I was beginning to think Cameron was bringing home mental patients.” His eyes veered back to
the TV screen.
Now that I had opened my eyes to see that this kid was called Kid because he was, indeed, just a
kid, I felt a little braver. He was no doubt a big boy who could probably crush me with one
hand, but he was not going to be the one to kill me.
Yet, with the knowledge that there was some man walking outside with a very large gun, I didn’t
take more than a little comfort in that. At least, for now, we were alone, and as far as the kid
and I were concerned, there were—currently—no plans to kill me.
When I snapped out of my daze, Kid was snoring on the couch. With the threat of imminent death
temporarily off my mind, the rest of my senses had kicked in—like the taste of regurgitated
takeout in my mouth and the feel of the crusted tears that had dried on my face. All of a
sudden, finding a washroom was bumped up to first place on my mental survival list.
My feet treading lightly on the wide-planked floor, I made my way down the hall that was off of
the living room and immediately found the bathroom—and it felt like home as soon as I walked
in. Was it the dried soap splatters across the mirror, or the remnants of beard shavings in the
sink, or the piles of dirty clothes and towels that littered every surface of the bathroom and
the adjacent laundry room, which also had two washers and two dryers? Whatever it was, it made
me feel a bit less out of place.
I took my time gargling mouthwash that I found under the sink and splashing water on my
colorless face. My hair looked like I had stuck a finger in an electrical outlet; I watered it
down as best I could to keep the frizzed locks flat against my head, but the baby spirals that
framed my forehead corkscrewed as soon as they dried.
After a while, I walked out of the washroom and was startled when I walked right into a slight
girl in red flannel pajamas.
The girl stood for a long second, her hazelnut eyes refusing to release my face. Then with a
swift move, she grasped my bony arm and pulled hard, dragging me back toward the living room,
her dark hair flying wildly around her shoulders. She was definitely stronger than she looked.
“Rocco!” she shouted, her eyes ablaze. “What is she doing here?” She dragged me to front
stage and released my arm. Kid was forced out of slumber and looked up.
“Hey! You’re not supposed to be using my real name around other people—Carly!”
“I don’t care—Rocco!” the one called Carly huffed and asked again, “What is she doing here?
”
“Oh, right.” The Kid, Rocco, sat up and scratched his head. “That’s Emily,” he said,
listlessly waving in my direction.
“I didn’t ask you who she was, I asked you what she’s doing—here,” she shrilly corrected,
her diminutive finger pointing down to the floor for further amplification.
“Right now, I bet she’s wishing she hadn’t gone wandering off and met up with you.”
He was very right.
“Stop fooling around, Rocco, and answer my question. What—is she—doing—here,” she slowly
spelled out for him.
Rocco glowered. “Why does everybody keep asking me that?” he whined. “I don’t know what she
’s doing here.”
“Where’s Cameron?” she asked, glancing around. “Does he know you did this?”
“Cameron’s the one who sent her here,” he smugly replied.
Her face lost color. “What?”
“He’s the one who—” Rocco repeated, but Carly cut him off.
“I heard you, but I don’t believe you.”
She took another breath, and then she lifted an eyebrow. “What happened out there?”
“Someone,” he explained, pointing accusingly at me, “thought it would be a good idea to run
toward the angry guys with the guns.”