Article 5

that she pulled from the washroom and a bar of soap. Chase followed with our bag. I knew he was getting a layout of the house, the exits.

“They’re awfully friendly,” I whispered while he washed his hands. “We could be serial killers for all they know.”

He made a small sound of agreement in the back of his throat.

“We can’t stay until morning,” I informed him. But my bloody, blistered feet, and the cramping muscles in my lower back and calves argued otherwise.

He didn’t answer, his mood black again, and I found myself resentful that he put on such a happy face for strangers while I got the silent treatment. The moment between us outside had obviously been lost, and that hurt more than I cared to admit.

As he stalked out of the bathroom, I saw his eyes lift to scan their oversized dresser and plush gold comforter with interest. Surely he didn’t mean to steal anything. Not while they were in the next room.

The water was warm, thanks to the generator, and soothed my aching body while I scrubbed away the layers of grime. Even so, I couldn’t relax. I didn’t like not knowing what was happening in the rest of the house.

I changed quickly, making sure my boots were on tight just in case we needed to make a quick exit, and checked my hair in the mirror. The short length of it shocked me; since Chase had cut it I hadn’t had the chance to grow accustomed to my reflection. Now wet, I could see the uneven patches where his knife had gone astray. Frowning, I knelt to search the backpack for my hair tie, but my hand stalled on the outer pocket.

Why did Chase never allow me to look through the bag? He’d insisted on getting everything I needed from it himself. There had to be something he was hiding.

I glanced toward the door, now worried that he might come back to check on me. When I strained my ears I only heard the sounds of Ronnie playing with his toy trucks in the living room. I pulled open the thick copper zipper.

The top layer in the pack was clothing, rolled economically to a more compact size. Most of it was damp from when the weather had soaked through the canvas the other day. Beneath, I found my hair tie, which I automatically latched around my wrist, and matches, a flashlight, the dreaded nightstick, a plastic box of soap, and some other toiletries. I came upon a plastic Ziploc bag, filled with cash. My jaw dropped as I flipped through the bills. All twenties. Nearly five thousand dollars. How long had Chase been saving?

My hand bumped into something else. A Statute circular, rubber-banded around something rectangular and hard. The band slid off easily, and the paper unfolded at the creases, revealing a paperback novel, stuffed thick with folded papers.

My heart thudded against my ribs. The worn cover read Frankenstein.

* * *

“WHAT is it about that book?” His tone was mildly teasing.

I set it on my nightstand and watched him wander around my room. He picked things up carefully. Set them down. Wiped them off if he left a fingerprint. Since the War he’d never really known what to do with possessions.

“I like it. What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s just an interesting choice,” he said, now even more intrigued. “It’s just not very… girly, I guess.” He laughed.

“It was written by a girl.”

“A girl who likes monsters.”

“Maybe I like monsters.” I hid a smile.

“Is that right?” Chase narrowed his eyes my direction. He sat beside me on the bed and bounced a little, unused to a mattress, then grinned like a little kid.

“He’s not really a monster, anyway,” I said. “It’s everyone else that makes him that way because he’s different. It’s sad, you know? How people can tear you down like that. How you try to do the right thing but you just can’t.”

Like telling Roy to stay away from my mother, I almost added, and felt my face heat up.

He tilted his head, eyes peering deep inside of me in a way that made me feel exposed, like I’d never really been seen before, yet at the same time safe, like he’d never tell a soul what he’d found. His fingers laced with mine.

“It sounds lonely,” he said.

* * *

I OPENED the book and gently unfolded a small bundle of papers, two of them sherbet green. These were legal documents, passing on the deed of his parent’s house to the surviving family member, Chase Jennings. It saddened me to think of this weight he carried.

The next papers, and there were thirty or so of them, were pounded thin and creased so severely they could have ripped if I’d opened them too fast. My pulse raced forward. I recognized the paper… the penmanship.

These were my letters. The ones I’d written to Chase in the MM. I opened a few, knowing I needed to hurry but not able to resist the temptation to verify they were real. I read through my meaningless small talk: what Beth and I were doing, how classes were going, conversations I’d had with my mother. My words produced a flood of nostalgia. The hard feel of the kitchen table and the smell of vanilla candles as I wrote late into the night. The fresh concern for his safety. The longing I’d felt for him.

I’d written about some of this. I’d told him that I missed him. That I was waiting impatiently to hear about his life. That I thought of him constantly. I’d finished each letter with “Love, Ember,” and it had been true. I’d loved Chase Jennings.

I thought of how he’d held me outside and wondered if I didn’t love him still.

Acknowledging this made my heart twist with confusion. He was infuriating and inconsistent. Bossy and overprotective and vague about everything. No one bothered me as much as him.

Because, I knew, no one meant as much to me. No one except my mother, and the love I had for her felt entirely different. Like needing oxygen and needing water.

Somehow, I was annoyed. Why had he kept these letters? At times it seemed he could barely stand being around me, and yet he’d carried mementos of our relationship through the service and halfway across the country. How separate was the old Chase, my Chase, from the soldier, after all?

And what would the hope that he still cared cost me?

I placed the letters back into the novel, careful to leave them just as they’d been found. When I did so, my eyes fell upon a quote, spoken by the narrator, Victor, to his beloved.

“I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with horror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only wonder that I survive what I have endured.”

I shivered involuntarily. Apparently my false identity hadn’t come out of nowhere.

CHAPTER 11

“HOW come you’re so big?” Ronnie said in wonderment from the dining room. He stood on top of his chair to try to measure up to Chase, but still fell drastically short.

“I eat lots of vegetables,” Chase lied, eliciting an encouraging thumbs-up from Mary Jane. “You mind if I sit here?” He’d chosen a seat that backed against the wall so that he had a clear view of the room.

“Nope,” said the kid.

“Use your manners, Ronnie,” said Mary Jane. I was helping her set the table.

“No, thank you,” said Ronnie.

She laughed nervously. “I mean, sit down please. Over here, by Mom.” She clearly wanted her son—the only one who seemed comfortable with the dinner arrangement—between his mother and father. Which left me