The Girl Who Dared to Think (The Girl Who Dared #1)

Sarah’s apartment was a wash of green. Every corner, shelf, table, and flat surface available contained a potted plant, and every plant had a precise label containing the scientific name, the date the specimen had been planted, and how much water and light it needed. There were so many plants that they had begun to spread out into her living space, and she scurried about, lifting a few off the couch and dusting away any lingering dirt before motioning for us to sit.

“Sorry it’s a bit of a mess, Knight,” she said, her face flushed. She glanced at Grey with a puzzled expression, then set about dusting off a nearby chair and settling down in it, looking at us with cautious eyes.

I smiled, and then frowned as she closed the door to the hall using a button on her seat, almost as an afterthought. She was closing herself off from her own people—the ones who should be helping her, not hurting her—and I could see why. It was wrong of them to come down on her for her rank. The woman seemed amiable and pleasant, if a bit disorganized. I wondered what had made Scipio turn on her.

“Thank you, Citizen Thrace,” I said.

“Please, call me Sarah.” She looked down and away, a sad smile on her lips. “Thank you so much for earlier.”

Grey sat down on the couch beside me and regarded the woman with a clinical eye. Sarah’s own eyes darted between him and myself, and I let out a little cough. Then Grey started talking, a broad smile blossoming on his face and reaching all the way to his eyes.

“Sarah,” he said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Grey Farmless.”

“Yes,” she said, exhaling slightly and shifting nervously. “I’ve heard about you. It was quite extreme what your parents did. Most of the floor felt that way.”

Grey’s eyes widened in surprise, but he hid it quickly, leaning back on the couch and placing an arm across the armrest. “I appreciate the sentiment. Thank you.” I could he tell he didn’t quite believe it, but we were here to convince her to do something big, and he wasn’t letting his emotional issues get in the way. Which impressed me. “Anyway, we aren’t here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about you and your ranking. You were an eight last month. What happened?”

I blinked, new questions that I felt stupid for not having already asked him forming in my mind: How did he know that? How had he known how to find her, and how did he know about her rank history? Supposedly, the only people who had access to our rank histories were the Eyes. How did he know who she was, what her rank was, and what skills she brought to the table? Could Grey or Roark hack into Scipio? I made a mental note to ask Grey about this as soon as possible.

Sarah’s expression had grown distant. She looked toward the rows of plants lining the entryway.

“My husband died,” she said quietly. “An accident. Mechanical failure, they said.”

Grey’s expression softened, and he leaned forward. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “It can be overwhelming to lose someone you care about. It’s entirely understandable that you would feel pressured afterward.”

She let out a little laugh, dragging a hand through her hair. “I just can’t stop thinking,” she said, the words bursting from her mouth in a sudden rush, “that if Scipio can see into all our hearts, and controls all the machines of the Tower, he should have seen this coming. And if he did... why couldn’t he save Darren?”

I touched my cheek, remembering what had happened when I had asked the same question of my mother, and looked at Sarah. Grief was radiating from her, overwhelming and thick, and I felt her sadness—and empathized with it, despite the fact that it was putting her in danger. You couldn’t ask questions like that about Scipio, not without being labeled a dissident. And I couldn’t quite agree with her that Scipio was to blame for this. Oh, he was to blame for a lot that was wrong with the Tower, but not that. Scipio wasn’t infallible—he couldn’t predict everything that would happen, which meant he couldn’t keep people from dying.

But he could use their deaths as an excuse to kick those left behind while they were down.

Grey nodded but stayed silent, allowing the woman to continue. I watched him, trying to understand what he was looking for.

“My number dropped,” she explained. “After those thoughts started, it tipped down to a seven. It felt like Scipio was judging me for doubting him. Like my faith wasn’t enough. And I just kept slipping and slipping. Soon my friends would no longer come over and visit me. Now my parents won’t speak to me. The two men in the hall? They were my friends. I thought they’d stick by me no matter what. But once I hit three...”

Her voice broke, and she covered her mouth with her hand, tears leaking from her eyes while her shoulders shook. I couldn’t bear seeing it without doing anything to comfort her and immediately moved to her side, placing my hand on her back and rubbing her shoulders.

“It’s okay,” I soothed. “It’s going to be okay.” I looked over at Grey, who gave me a small nod in confirmation, and I exhaled.

“No, it won’t,” the woman keened softly. She reached down, caught the hem of her shirt between two hands, and pulled it up. I gasped, a hand going to my mouth as she revealed a landscape of bruises. A mottled, angry series of marks. No wonder she’d still been able to talk in the hall—her composure in the face of violence had developed after being on the tail end of several beatings. I took in the sight of her bruises, and then gently moved her hand away, pulling her shirt back down for her. She continued her silent sobbing, and I comforted her. Grey stood up and went into her kitchen, returning with a cup of tea in his hands, having used the hot-water spigot and a tea bag he must have found in there.

She accepted it, the cup and liquid sloshing as her hand shook, and she took a moment to collect herself by taking a deep sip.

“Sarah,” Grey started after she’d calmed down some, “it’s not your fault that things have gotten this way, and it’s not your fault that the people in this department are treating you so poorly.”

Sarah’s eyes filled with tears again, but she nodded, staring down at her hands clasped around the teacup in her lap.

Grey took a deep breath and glanced at me. “Sarah, what would you say if I told you there was a solution?” he asked.

She froze, then turned slowly, gazing up at Grey with apprehensive eyes. I also looked at him, and saw him draw out a small blue pill from his pocket. He wasn’t showing it to her, though; he was just holding it. I stared. Paragon was white. What was that drug? What was he planning to do with it? I was more curious than alarmed—I felt strongly that Grey would never hurt someone in anything other than self-defense.