“Liar. You have to. How else would they know where to look?”
“They’re just lucky, I guess.” There’s a humming in my ears now and I have to push each breath through my nose. Regrettable since I can smell Kent even better now. “If you don’t believe me, talk to Hart. I work alone. It’s in my file. Whatever you’re seeing . . . it has to be someone random. Or maybe it’s the people I’m hiding from. I’m popular. Ask anybody.”
“I don’t believe you. Whoever it is—they had to know what you were doing before Hart picked you up.” Spit flicks past Kent’s lips. He’s getting more and more agitated, and strangely, it makes me calmer. He isn’t rude to me because I’m a girl. He’s rude to me because I’m a threat.
And maybe also because I’m a girl.
“You’ll get in trouble for not being honest with Dr. Norcut.” He’s grinning now. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Good to know. Are we done here?”
“You think you’re so tough, but—”
“Yeah, we’re done.” I walk around him and shove through the doors like my legs aren’t shaking. I want to stop, lean against the wall, and catch my breath and I can’t.
I watch the security camera from the corner of my eye and wait for the elevator as my insides try to climb outside. Because it isn’t a “they” at all. Someone who’s familiar with my code? Someone who attacks firewalls?
It’s Griff.
I can’t concentrate during dinner. I can’t stop thinking about everyone who might hunt me down—Milo, Carson, even some of my dad’s thugs—but none of them know firewalls as well as Griff.
How does he even know I’m here? Did someone tell him? And why’s he searching for me? Why now? We haven’t spoken in weeks. The last thing he said to me was that he couldn’t touch me. Not even once, because if he did, he’d have to touch me again.
And he wasn’t going to let himself do that.
In Griff’s defense, I deserved it. I lied. To him, to Bren, to Lily.
But mostly to myself.
I haven’t spoken to Griff in two months now. It hurts and it has no right to hurt. It’s not like I’ve been spending all my time away from him alone. I have Milo.
Had Milo. It’s stupid for me to worry about him. He’s way better at hiding than I am and yet I can’t seem to shake the anxiety that he’s going to get caught. Looking Glass and Hart and Norcut have cracked me and what-ifs are seeping through.
After dinner, we have group therapy in the common room. Norcut leads, Hart watches, and a woman in a wrinkled suit sits in the corner and takes notes.
“She’s from some government agency,” Alex whispers as we find seats in the semicircle. “She stops by every month or so to check on the program. I think it’s for licensing or something.”
Or something. The armchairs have been pulled away from the television and I pick the farthest one from the official. Thing is, out of everyone here, she seems the most legit. I’ve been around social workers enough to spot the type: bloodshot eyes from long hours, tote bag swollen with case files.
Group therapy is also familiar. I’m expected to share more since I’m the newest arrival and I hit all the high notes: Mom died. Dad in jail. I enjoy computers, chocolate, and long walks on beaches.
Norcut’s fingers tighten around her pen just like they used to. “And what do you want to work on during your time with us? What personal goal would you like to achieve?”
I’d like to stay alive. I’d like to know why Griff’s searching for me. I’d like my old life back.
No, scratch that. I don’t want to go back to that life. I want parts of it, but not all of it anymore. So that means . . . what?
I have no idea.
And by this time, I’ve taken so long to answer, Norcut gives me a little smile. “Is there anything you’d like to do over? Any mistakes you’ve made that you want to make sure you never make again?”
Thousands. I shrug. I get what she’s doing, but this is why therapy can be so damn pointless: They think you can distill everything you do into one or two character flaws. I have way more faults than that.
And way more mistakes . . . still . . . “Trust,” I say at last. “I need to work on trusting people.”
Norcut beams and tells me what a good job I’m doing. Then she has the group tell me what a good job I’m doing. This is a therapist’s version of passing out treats because I sat on command. Or rolled over. Take your pick.
Norcut wants to talk to all of us about boundaries now. People have them. We shouldn’t cross them—especially when those boundaries are set by the government and are there for people’s privacy.