“That’s funny. That’s what Portia guessed you’d say,” she says. “What are you thinking you’ll do?”
I want to kill Berg. That’s what I want to do. A strange, warm conviction uncoils inside me, like a hibernating snake has slithered out of a hole. This is what I’ve wanted for a long time. This is the point of my rage, but until now, I haven’t been able to focus on anything except getting out of the vault. I look across at Jenny’s wide-eyed eagerness, and I feel a vast separation between her and me, like I’ve aged or traveled ten thousand miles from any normal life.
“Do you want to go home?” Jenny suggests.
“That’s the first place Berg will look for me,” I say. “Besides, my parents turned me over to him once before. I’m not sure I can get past that.”
“They’re offering the reward for you, and they’re suing Berg for custody again,” Jenny says. “That doesn’t sound like they’d turn you over to him.”
Doesn’t matter. I’m not going home.
“Where are we, exactly?” I ask.
She names a town I’ve never heard of and adds, “We’re a couple hours east of Denver.”
Fragrant steam is wafting from the waffle iron, and when the next one’s ready, she breaks it in half for us to share, even though I haven’t even finished my last waffle and have no intention of eating more. She sits across from me, tidily spreading a napkin on her lap before she digs in. Without prompting, she tells me about her indoor track team and her mom in the National Guard. Under a collection of magnets, the fridge shows pinpricks of rust through the white paint. A pair of binoculars and a butterfly net hang on hooks among jackets and scarfs, and coupons are piled in a tidy basket.
“You have a nice place,” I say. “Is it just you and Portia living here?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah, for now. Mom’s serving overseas. She’ll be back for good in twelve days. I can’t wait.”
“You said she’s a stickler for rules.”
“That’s an understatement. She’s strict, and she runs everything with precision timing when she’s here. Drives me and Portia crazy, actually, but we love her,” Jenny says. “We haven’t told her you’re here. She has enough to worry about over there.”
I stir my knife in my melted butter. “How long can I stay with you?” I ask.
“Portia and I have been talking about that. As long as we end up getting the reward for you, you can stay as long as you like.”
“That’s unbelievably nice,” I say.
She sucks syrup off her fork and smiles. “You’d do the same for me. You should know, though, once Mom gets here, she’ll call the police.”
Fair enough.
A kitten pads softly into the room and dips its head into a bowl of food. The black-and-gray tabby has a dash of white around its mouth and throat, and its softness draws me.
“What’s your cat’s name?” I ask.
“Gingerbread. Mom doesn’t know about her yet, either,” Jenny smiles.
“Can I use your computer? I want to see how to get rid of my port and my catheter.”
“This sounds fun. Just a sec.”
She vanishes into the living room and returns a moment later with a laptop. When she flips it open, the first thing I notice is a piece of black duct tape that covers the camera lens above the screen.
“What’s this for?” I ask, setting a finger on the tape.
“That’s Mom’s precaution,” Jenny says. “She doesn’t want anyone knowing what her kids look like. Hold on.” She gets typing.
“She thinks someone could use your computer camera lens to spy on you?” I ask.
“It’s been done,” she says, and her gaze narrows at the screen.
We spend the next hour looking up sites about IVs and catheters, and I learn more than I wanted to about total parenteral nutrition and suprapubic catheters. I don’t dare to mess with my TPN port, the soft lump under my skin, but apparently my bladder will heal in ten minutes if I snip a stitch and pull out the plastic tube that goes into me.
“You are not seriously going to try that,” Jenny says.
“You don’t have to look.”
“Rosie! You can’t learn medicine from a video!”
I turn to meet her worried gaze. “For the last four months, I’ve been completely helpless,” I say. “It’s my body. I can do anything I want to it.”
I head into the bathroom, and when I come out half an hour later, my catheter is out. The port in my chest is more than I can manage to take out on my own, and I resent it.
Jenny has cleaned the dishes, and she’s sitting on the living room couch with her laptop on her knees. “All good?” she asks.
“Ready to pee with the best of them,” I say.
She laughs. “Do you want to see my favorite scene from The Forge Show?” she asks.
“Sure.” I take a seat beside her and hitch my feet up on the coffee table.
“Don’t let Mom catch you doing that,” she says, but then she puts her feet up next to mine.
She’s at the Gorge on Forge site, and without further preamble, she taps a featured video clip of me and Burnham. It’s shot from a high angle overlooking the pasture at Forge, and the camera slowly zooms in on us. My memory bursts to life, bringing a mix of emotions: pleasure, guilt, curiosity. From this perspective, I look quirky with my wavy curls, brown sweater, and short skirt. Burnham’s tall, square-shouldered, and visibly athletic even when he’s still. We stand facing each other along the path in the pasture, where the surrounding grass is darkly soaked from an earlier rain. I recall how Burnham wore no socks with his loafers. That same morning, he showed me the glitches he’d caught in my ghost-seeking footage, and I was ecstatic to have real proof of Berg’s evilness, no matter how small the proof was.
“That is one fine-looking brother,” Jenny says.
My heart beats oddly. This was our last conversation right before our accident on the observatory ladder, and knowing what’s coming gives the video a weird poignancy, like doom hovers over us. The audio catches us clearly, and I’m drawn in by Burnham’s warm, resonant voice.
“I wrote you a letter,” Burnham says and passes me an envelope.
“When did you write this?” I ask.
“Last night. After swimming. Wait until you’re alone to read it,” he says.
“Thanks. I’m dying of curiosity,” I say.
“It’s not a love poem or anything,” he adds.
“Of course not,” I say.
He’s standing all quiet and casual, but that only magnifies a shifting tension between us.
“Look at his hand behind his back,” Jenny says beside me. “See there?”
He flexes his fingers and then curls them inward.
“Sorry,” I say.
“What for?” Burnham asks.
In the clip, I shake my head, and color rises in my cheeks. I recall how awkward I’d felt, but I look almost graceful. My posture is one long curve that mirrors Burnham’s.
“Rosie,” Burnham says. “I get that you’re seeing Linus.”
“Yes. I am.”
I stop the clip.