Juniper was the more vocal one whenever Crevan visited; I thought she had the same conspiracy theory brain as Granddad. It is like we switched roles on the bus that day: It should have been her to help the Flawed old man. I think, in a way, she would be happier if she was Flawed, because she has always felt on the fringes of society anyway. Being Flawed would almost be a badge of honor to Juniper. There is a multitude I should learn from her. I miss her so much.
I called Juniper at the café twice from Granddad’s house. She picked up only once. I just wanted to hear her voice—I never spoke; I couldn’t get her in trouble, but I knew that if the Guild was looking at Granddad’s phone records, it wouldn’t seem odd that he calls his granddaughter at work.
Now I dial the number again.
“Coffee House,” a man answers.
“Glory, please.” I’d also learned she’d changed her name. No one wants to hire someone whose sister is on the Guild’s Wanted list. Glory and Tori were the fake names we used to give each other when playing as children. We used to stick cushions up our T-shirts and pretend to be two overweight ladies who owned a cake shop. We’d spend hours making cakes from mud in the back garden, sprinkling them with petals and grass, and serving them to our imaginary customers, usually Ewan, who attempted to eat them much to our amusement and Mom’s panic.
“No personal calls,” he says.
“Her grandmother died,” I snap, and he quickly gets off the phone.
“Hello?” She sounds nervous.
“Glory. It’s Tori, from the cake shop.”
She pauses. “Is that you?” she whispers.
“Yes,” I say, and I want to cry. There is so much I want to say to my sister, but I’m afraid to give too much away. I’m running out of time and I need to leave now, before Raphael gets back and before the Whistleblowers get here.
“Oh my God, are you okay?”
“Yes. I need your help, though. I need something from the house. Can you get it to me?”
“I’ll try.” She lowers her voice. “It’s difficult. They keep coming to the house. For searches. And she took everything from your room. I’m so sorry. We couldn’t stop her.”
Instantly I know exactly who she’s talking about. Mary May.
“The day after you left she came and trashed your bedroom, then after Granddad … well she took everything. All your stuff. They’re looking for something, and most of the time I don’t think it’s you.”
“You’re right,” I say simply. “Where did she take it?”
“I don’t know, but she wasn’t in her uniform and she drove her own car. She just packed away everything in garbage bags and left.”
She did this when Granddad was taken away, when they couldn’t find me at the farm. So this was only two days ago. But they’re still looking for me, which means they’re still looking for the footage. I just hope she hasn’t discarded the snow globe. Knowing Mary May, she hasn’t.
I hear Raphael returning and I wrap it up.
“That was a great help,” I say hurriedly. “I love you.” I end the call and place the phone back on the table.
“I’ve left a message with Crevan’s secretary for him to call me urgently on his return,” Raphael says, placing a glass of water down on the table for me. “I’m sure he’ll know what it’s about, he will have been alerted to your presence here. And any phone call from me is deemed urgent.”
He seems nervous by what he’s just taken on. Or who: Judge Crevan.
I’m not waiting around for Crevan to call me back, to be a sitting duck for the Whistleblowers. It is impossible to know who to trust anymore. Instead of thinking of the uncertainties, I need to deal with the facts.
I know who I can’t trust.
I know exactly how to get to Crevan in one swift phone call.
FORTY
“ART, IT’S ME,” I say, phone to my ear as I rattle down the bumpy mountains in Raphael’s Mini Cooper. My heart is banging in my chest, I feel it thudding in my ears, the hot anger. I want to scream at him, I know who you’ve become!
“Celestine?” he asks, surprised.
I put him on speakerphone and place two hands on the wheel to concentrate as the Mini steams down the mountainside.
“Where are you?” His voice crackles.
“I need to meet you,” I say firmly. “I have something to show you.”
“What is it?”
“Video. Of your dad and me.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I’ll meet you in two hours. Our usual place.”
He’s silent as he thinks about it, then, “Okay.”
I end the call.
Carrick was right about one thing. Art is bait.
FORTY-ONE
I HIDE AT the top of the hill, under the cover of darkness, feeling sick to my stomach. Susan insisted on feeding me something I still couldn’t taste before I left the house, to give me some energy, but now it’s threatening to revolt. I wait on the summit that overlooks the city, my old nightly meeting place with Art. It’s the first time I’ve ever been earlier than him; he was always here waiting for me—just another telltale sign that our situations have reversed.
The moon is high in the sky, not a perfect full moon like that last moment I was here with Art, the night he gave me the anklet with the three circles signifying geometric harmony, perfection, the night before my life changed forever. Maybe the moon wasn’t perfectly full, maybe I just thought it was, because I can see now that I thought a lot of things that weren’t true. I think back to who I was then and see how naive I was, thinking I knew it all, thinking I could plan it all, thinking that I could have every solution to every problem. Thinking I could trust people.
I’m still wearing the anklet that Art gave me. There was only one occasion when I thought about ripping it off and throwing it away: the moment I saw him dressed as a Whistleblower. But just like the sixth brand that is seared into my lower spine, the anklet gives me power. Now I know it was given to me by a Whistleblower, the son of the man who branded me. It labels me as Perfect. They’re all hypocrites.
I hear the crunch of footsteps on the gravel and I pull back. Jeans, a dark hoodie, that mop of playful blond curls, the soft face, the gentle eyes, the lips that sit as if every word that passes them is a joke. Art. I wait to see if he’s alone. I leave him waiting one minute, then two. Nobody else is in sight, for now.
I step out from the shadows.
“Hi,” he says, like he’s afraid of me. He looks me up and down. And then he looks around, nervous he’ll be found. I wonder if Crevan will jump out and catch me now, or if he’ll wait until after our conversation. If Art’s task has been to get the information from me, or if he even knows he’s being used at all. Poor Art, I feel a flash of sympathy for him, trapped in the middle of all this. But then the sympathy dies, because he chose the wrong side.
“Hi,” I reply, sounding much softer than I’d intended to.