cradle.
I shot a nervous glance at the door and lifted Serena’s file. The only thing inside was her admission form. There were no test results or doctor’s notes—nothing to indicate there was anything wrong with her. The only thing out of the ordinary was a red circle around the age she had been when she became infected.
If Serena really was sick—if there really was a new disease—could it have something to do with age? No one knew why, but people who contracted LS before fifteen only had a 40-percent chance of surviving their first shift. Serena had been infected when she was eleven.
I closed the folder.
There was a laptop on the desk, but it displayed a login, and the stack of papers underneath Serena’s file were just class schedules and budget sheets—nothing that would help me figure out what was happening to her and nothing that might help us plan a way out of this place.
Quickly, I moved on to the desk drawers. Only the top one was unlocked. When I opened it, I saw why: all it contained was a pen, three paperclips, and a box of meal replacement bars. I guess being a prison warden didn’t leave a lot of time for balanced nutrition.
I closed the drawer and turned.
The painting filled my vision.
What I had taken for shadows behind the woman were smokelike men, contorted and screaming as though they were damned. This close, I could see that her dress wasn’t tattered; it was scorched.
Not exactly something I’d want hanging in my office.
I frowned. The painting really wasn’t flush with the wall. I ran my fingers over the frame and jumped back as the whole thing swung out and revealed a touch screen almost as large as the TV Jason had in his bedroom. A list of names filled the screen.
The list was broken into two sections, “assets” and “raw,” and there were twenty names under the first category. My stomach lurched as I realized that Serena’s name was third and that my name and Kyle’s—each followed by a question mark—appeared near the bottom.
I tapped Kyle’s name and an image filled the screen. It was a black-and-white shot of him in the cage yesterday morning. I was just visible behind his shoulder. I touched the photo and it closed.
Now I knew why Sinclair had known my name without being told.
I touched Serena’s name. An image of her slumped behind a steel table filled the screen. She stared at the camera, eyes horribly blank. Underneath the photo was a small info icon. When I tapped it, the information from Serena’s admission form overlaid the photo in a pop-up.
I reached out to close the info window and froze. It was like I had suddenly been dropped into a tank of ice water. All the air was pulled from my lungs and everything seemed to slow down as I read the last line of text:
WILLOWGROVE. IT EXISTED. ACCORDING TO THE URBAN legends, it was a mystery camp. According to Dex, it was a death sentence. Whatever it was, it was real. It was real and Serena was caught up in it.
Muffled voices drifted through the door and jolted me out of my shock. I jabbed the touchscreen—once, twice, until it was back the way I had found it—then swung the painting into place.
Faint electronic beeps sounded from the keypad outside as I threw myself around the desk and into my seat. My butt barely had time to touch down before the warden opened the door.
Anger filled her eyes. For a heart-stopping moment, I was certain she knew what I had seen, but she simply said, “Mackenzie, it’s time you headed to class.”
I rose unsteadily and crossed the room. A dozen questions fought to get free, but I held them back. It wasn’t like I could just tell Sinclair I had been snooping around her office and then casually ask what Willowgrove was.
She placed a hand on my arm, palm over the scar Derby had left, as she ushered me into the waiting room. My skin crawled until the touch fell away.
“Elliott, would you mind escorting Mackenzie to the remainder of her morning class?”
“Sure,” said a voice capable of seducing an angel out of her halo, “I can make sure she gets there.”
I
“Thank you, Elliott.” Sinclair withdrew into her office.
I barely registered her exit.
“Whoa. . . .” Familiar hands were on my arms, steadying me as the room spun. Tan uniform. Blond hair. Green eyes. The colors swirled as I struggled to make sense of the person in front of me.
Jason shot me a tight, guarded grin. “Hi, there. I’m the new intern counselor.”
I just blinked.
He shifted his grip so that one hand rested just underneath my elbow and drew me across the room. “They just had a code twelve—it’s not a good time for you to be in here.”
We stepped into the hallway and then hugged the wall as two program coordinators rushed past. “What’s a code twelve?”
“A guard was scratched.”
Jason guided me down halls and around corners. He released my arm as we approached the entrance where a guard—a woman instead of the man who’d been there earlier—was on duty.
She nodded and Jason returned the gesture, exuding strength and experience and looking years older. There was no way anyone would ever guess he was seventeen.
Outside, guards were milling in the courtyard. There was nothing I could do other than follow Jason and bottle my questions—at least temporarily. I glanced up at the sun, trying to gauge the time. Late morning.
I expected Jason to take the path that led to the classrooms and dorms, but he veered right and headed for an older path that hugged a small rise. The pavement was cracked and crumbling; I had to watch my step as we crested the minuscule hill and passed a long one-story brick building that almost looked like row houses.
“Original staff quarters for the sanatorium,” Jason muttered absently, even though I hadn’t asked. “They’re tearing it down next month.”
Sure enough, the windows were boarded up and yellow caution tape had been strung across the doors.
I stopped in the middle of the path. “
He turned and stared. The expression on his face was equal parts frustration and incredulity. “What do you think I’m doing here? I came to get you out.” He turned and started walking again. “Come on. We need to talk.”
I shook my head, even though his back was to me. “Later. Kyle had an accident”—no way did I feel up to telling Jason just what that accident had entailed—“but the warden said he was sent back to class. I need to make sure he’s okay.”
The lawns bordering the path were overgrown with grass that was almost knee high, but cutting across them would be faster than doubling back and taking the path. Trying not to think about rodents and snakes, I stepped off the crumbling pavement and pushed my way through, skirting an abandoned pile of bricks and an old, dilapidated greenhouse.
I heard Jason follow. “Mac . . .”
“Later, okay? I promise.” I couldn’t believe anything Sinclair had said—especially after seeing that list. Until I saw Kyle for myself, I couldn’t be sure he was okay. And until I was sure he was okay, I couldn’t deal with anything else. Not even Jason.
“I’ve got a letter from your father.”
My step faltered and I turned.
Jason crossed the distance between us and wrapped a hand around my arm. Before I could ask what he thought he was doing or why he had a message from Hank, he pulled me toward the greenhouse.
