Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
But as I take the things, my conscience pricks at me like a long-lost memory. I used to care once. I used to fucking care about goddamn morals.
I have to find Harper.
I rifle through the wallet and take the cash, shove it in my pocket, and grab the keys and phone. It’s enough. It’ll get me out of here.
My next job, after I find a place to hide myself like a needle in a haystack: Find Finley Morose.
Chapter 9
Harper
Cy, where are you?
Are you okay?
Did they hurt you?
How will I find you?
They let me leave the infirmary, though I was heavily guarded on the way to my room. At first, anyway. There were a few uniformed people who had hushed conversations, and it seemed as if they realized I was onto them or something. They backed off, though I wonder if the room I’m in is being observed.
What is their end goal with me?
I have to make the most of it at this point. I’m not fighting anything but observing instead.
Despite my anger and fear about Cy, I have to admit the room I’m in is gorgeous. A part of me even wonders if this is on purpose, to distract me with luxury. The walls are painted light brown, the color of milk-laced lattes, the carpet striped in golds and browns. Simple mahogany furniture decorates the small but opulent interior, and a full bed, made up with satiny, white sheets the color of newly fallen snow, sits in the center of the room with a large window overlooking the ocean view. Something catches in my throat when I see little islands dotting the horizon, so obscured by clouds and fog they could be mirages.
I wanted off that island. And now that I am, there’s nothing more I want than to be back there, with Cy. Back where I discovered my most authentic self.
My room is nestled, conveniently, at the very heart of the ship, where I’m flanked on all sides by those who work here. Those who are, most likely, determined to keep me closely watched so I don’t leave.
Where are we going? I’ve dropped the topic of Cy for now. I want to know where we are, where we’re going, and what happens after that. I want to see ahead of me to everything they have planned, so I can make plans of my own.
It’s evening by the time I’m finally settled in my room. I’m trying to convince myself to enjoy the relative luxuries of this place while I can, and while aboard this ship, my freedom is severely limited.
It’s been so long since I’ve had food prepared and delivered to me that I didn’t have to hunt, forage, or prepare myself. So long since I’ve had access to a shower, soap, and clean clothes. So long since I’ve had silky sheets beneath me when I slept.
I’m not sure where Lila gets everything, but she delivers a large bundle of clothing, toiletries, and a bottle of wine.
I look at her curiously. “What’s the wine for?”
“Seems you could use a little relaxation,” she says almost apologetically. Her brows knit together, and she doesn’t meet my eyes, as she arranges the toiletries in a little basket near the bathroom. I observe her in silence. She’s so thin, she looks as if a swift gust of wind might break her, so tall she nearly had to duck her head when she entered the room. Her dark hair, a large mass of curly ringlets, is wild and unruly, though she’s attempted to tame it down with a severe ponytail. When she turns to me, she again doesn’t meet my eyes, but looks down at the floor.
“Anything else I can get you?” she asks. “Anything at all?”
There are dark circles under her eyes, and I wonder if her thin figure speaks of trouble at home, or something else.
Was she paid to be here? Not just as staff, but more? A spy? An actress? Someone paid to manipulate me and keep me away from Cy?
And as I watch her, I know. She’s the gateway I need. The chink in the armor that keeps all that’s factual hidden. The face behind the curtain.
I could hurt her. I could physically intimidate her and make her tell me everything. Or I could try a different tactic.
I decide on option B.
“Yes,” I say to her. “There is something I need. The truth.”
Her eyes snap to mine, wide with a terrifying fear that seems to grip her in its fierce hooks.
“The truth?” she says in a hoarse whisper. Then, as if she can’t help herself, she whispers, “They said you might ask that.”
I stand and walk to her. “Who?” I demand. “Who said that, Lila?”
She closes her eyes and makes the sign of the cross. It takes me aback for a moment. I haven’t seen anyone make that move in so long, it seems almost foreign to me. It’s an odd thing for a young woman like her to do, and it tells me she’s got something she’s hiding. Something she fears. Perhaps she grew up in a superstitious home, or in a culture that believes one can ward off danger with the cross.