I let out a laugh. It shouldn’t be any harder than killing him, which I aim to do.
“Where’ve you been all this time?” Linus asks. “Are you safe now?”
“Berg had me at a place called the Onar Clinic, near Denver,” I say. “I escaped a couple weeks ago.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I’ve been looking for you. I can help you, Rosie.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. And it’s true. That’s what hurts. I thought I wanted to hear his voice. I thought reaching out to him might make me feel a little better, but he’s been in the real world having a real life while I’ve been buried alive, and somehow his offer of help feels worse than too late. I don’t want help from him. “This was a mistake,” I say. “What if your line’s bugged?”
“The line’s not bugged. Just tell me where you are,” he says.
I hold the phone away from my cheek, staring at the numbers. Ian is down the block. He could have some high-tech audio surveillance on the house. He’s probably overhearing my every needy word.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Rosie!”
I end the call and listen attentively to the house, anxious for quiet. My stupid whim to call my ex might cost me everything. I have to leave now, before Berg traces my call, and before Jenny and Portia realize what I’ve done. I delete my call from Jenny’s phone. Stealthily, I open the bathroom door, and at that instant, the phone buzzes in my hand.
I jump out of my skin.
I scan the unfamiliar number, and a shiver of foreboding lifts along my arms. I answer and bring the phone to my ear. “Yes?” I whisper.
“This is your guardian, Sandy Berg,” he says. His voice is the calm of a poised cobra. “Please tell me you’re somewhere safe.”
My veins seize up. I have an instant of pure, mindless panic, and then I switch to survival mode and everything goes very clear.
“What do you want?” I ask.
While he’s talking, I move swiftly and quietly out of the bathroom and into the dark kitchen. Out the window, the Jeep is still parked in the road with its lights off. I grab the binoculars.
“You’re not well,” Berg continues. “I know this may not make sense to you, but you’ve been suffering from delusions. You’re liable to feel persecuted. Paranoid. You’ve left your treatment at a very critical time, and I’m afraid you could suffer a severe setback if we don’t get you back home immediately.”
At my ankle, Gingerbread gives a soft meow. I gently, firmly shove her aside and keep my binoculars aimed at the Jeep. I can barely make out Ian’s figure.
“You never give up, do you?” I say. “I’m not crazy. Quit telling me I am.”
“Of course you’re not crazy,” Berg says. “But you’re not at your most stable, either, are you? Please, Rosie. I can find you from this number, but it’s time-consuming to search, and we need to minimize the press, for your own sake. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come for you myself.”
He doesn’t know where I am yet, if I can believe him. Ian doesn’t seem awake, and he certainly doesn’t have a phone next to his ear. He’s a piece that doesn’t fit in the puzzle.
“What home would you take me to?” I ask Berg. “Doli?”
Berg sighs. “No, my vacation home in Colorado, where you’ve been recuperating. I’ve hired a team to take care of you, day and night. Everyone on the staff is very concerned about you. We’re all anxious to have you safely back.”
“You’re lying,” I say. “I was in a vault at the Onar Clinic. Dr. Ash has been operating on me. You’ve been stealing my dreams.”
“Dr. Ash has been working at the Forge School, like always,” he says. “I see her there every day.”
“Don’t lie to me!” I say. “I’m not playing your games anymore. I don’t believe you!”
“Okay, suppose, just suppose you’re right,” he says. “I’m not saying you are, but let’s suppose you’ve been in a vault like you say. Suppose you became resistant to your therapy, and I began to fear that your mind was decaying. Suppose I determined that the best antidote for your decay was to allow you to have a little autonomy. A little freedom.” A shifting noise comes from his end of the line, and his voice drops softly. “Is it exciting, being out on your own?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, chilled.
“Have you had enough stimulation?” he says.
I punch disconnect and throw the phone away. It skitters across the kitchen table, hits the floor, and bangs against the base of the oven.
He can’t make me believe he let me escape. I’m not free temporarily for the sake of some stimulation.
Gingerbread meows from behind the fridge. With a shock, I freeze, listening. A thump comes from upstairs. One of the sisters must have heard the bang of the phone. She’ll be coming downstairs, and as soon as they realize I’ve phoned out, they’ll want the reward. Portia will call the hotline.
“Rosie?” Jenny calls quietly from above.
I have to go. I retrieve the phone and grab the nearest coat. I shove my feet in mismatched boots. I peer out at Ian in his dark Jeep, and, as I consider the puzzle once more, it hits me: Ian’s stalking doesn’t fit. The timing’s wrong. He was here before I talked to Berg, and he hasn’t made any move to come into the house. The more I think of it, Ian is the last person Dean Berg would ever send after me, and, finally, a wild idea occurs to me.
Ian isn’t here because of Berg. He hasn’t been sent. He’s here because of us.
Him and me.
Ian has tracked me here by heart.
16
ROSIE
SPITFIRE
SILENTLY, SO JENNY WON’T HEAR, I let myself out of the house. The last thing I do before I crunch down the snowy driveway is disconnect the battery from her phone and hurl the pieces into the backyard, where they’re swallowed up by the dark and the snow. Wind whips at my cheeks, but I put my head down and aim unwaveringly toward Ian’s Jeep.
I knock on the window of the passenger door. “Hey!”
Ian startles, and a second later, the door clicks from within, unlocking. I pull it open to a gust of warm air and the reek of cigarettes. Ian’s pale face is ghostly by the dashboard light.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He clears his throat, as if he doesn’t expect his voice to work properly. “I’m here to help you.”
The wind blows a shimmer of snow between us.
“Berg didn’t send you?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I came myself. I quit my job.”
I glance back toward the house where now half the lights are on.
“Are you going to hurt me if I get in?” I ask.
His beady eyes burn, and he speaks with low, feverish intensity. “I’d rather kill myself.”
Good enough for this girl. Like a nightmare, Ian ought to be something I can control if I exert enough will.
“Then drive,” I say, and I climb in.
He tosses an oily paper bag off my seat. Then he pulls onto the road. I take a look back and see Portia coming outside just as we turn the first corner. I notice a pet carrier that rests on the backseat of Ian’s Jeep. A gun rack with a rifle is mounted above the back window. I check around for visible mics and cameras but find none. A flimsy figurine dangles from the rearview mirror.
“Where to?” he asks.