Once We Were

Jackson had almost reached the intersection. If he managed to—

Another police car careened around the corner and screeched to a stop. Two more officers leapt out.

Jackson froze. Turned. He was more than a block away now, but I saw it like I was there beside him—the officers approaching, their skin mottled by the red-and-blue light, the first two breathing heavily, their faces red. We could feel his chest rising and falling. Feel his eyes searching for a way out. Any way out.

We felt the ground biting into our cheek when they knocked him down.

“We’ve got to go,” Peter said. We could barely hear him. We were still with Jackson on the ground, in the middle of that ring of police officers. Peter shook our shoulder. “We’ve got to go. Now. Before they start checking this street for more people.”

“No,” Addie said hoarsely. “No, we—”

“We can’t take this road anymore,” he said. “We’ll have to find another way to reach the shop.”

An officer pulled Jackson from the ground. Shoved him toward the police car. We watched just long enough to see Jackson disappear inside.

Then Peter bent down, took us from Ryan. Picked us up like we were nothing but a shattered child’s doll.

“We have to go,” he said.

FORTY-ONE

We stayed in the attic the whole night. Peter, Emalia, and Henri sat on the couches. Gingerly. Like they thought the frames might not hold their weight. Lissa sat cross-legged in the corner by the usual pile of empty soda bottles, staring at the floor. Kitty curled up against her.

Ryan sat by the window, his back against the wall, our head against his chest, his arms around our shoulders, our fingers fisted in his shirt. For a little while, Addie cried. Almost silently, but not quite.

Police cars passed outside, throwing red-and-blue lights through the curtain into the otherwise dark attic. Ryan whispered it’s all right, it’s all right in our ear, sounding almost as if he believed it.

Addie’s tears dried up, leaving a cracked riverbed of weariness in their place. She pulled herself together. Shifted out of Ryan’s arms so we were holding up our own weight. There wasn’t time, now, to fall apart.

“Are you hungry?” Addie asked when Kitty came up to us. Our voice was hoarse, but didn’t break. “They keep food up here—”

Kitty shook her head and looked away. “We ate. Emalia and me. Before they came.”

I could have, should have stopped this. I could have, should have kept her safe.

“Kitty—” Addie said.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. Her eyes were bright. But she didn’t cry. I realized we’d never seen Kitty or Nina cry. No matter what happened. “For—for making him go back. For getting him caught.”

“Kitty,” Addie said, “it wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault.”

Kitty hesitated, then shrugged. She knelt and set the camcorder in our lap. It felt heavier than it should have.

“It was on,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to—but it was on.”

For a moment, I didn’t understand.

Then I did.

Our fingers shook as Addie pried the back of the camcorder open. Took out the cartridge with its bright yellow label. Ryan’s fingers closed around ours.

“I wasn’t pointing it.” Kitty’s voice grew high again. “I didn’t mean—maybe it got nothing.”

“I want it,” Addie whispered. “Ryan, let go. I want it.”

Slowly, Ryan released our hand.

We left the attic after dawn. The streets were nearly empty. Saturday. Everything’s less regulated on the weekends, Sabine had said. Her excuse for bombing on a Friday. Now the Saturday-morning stillness was a strike against us—made us more conspicuous.

But we made it to Peter’s van. We made it through the grid of streets. And finally, when the sun was high and blinding, we made it to a small house at the edge of the city, with a scraggly, unkempt lawn and a dark red door.

I was in control then. Ryan and I were the first to walk up the porch steps, so I was the one who rang the doorbell. I leaned back against Ryan, and waited. I was patient. I knew it might take a while. That walking was hard for him, sometimes.

He opened the door slowly.

“Hi, Eva,” he said.

Jaime Cortae. Thirteen. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Lover of peanut butter. Sometime angel, sometime mischief maker. Always Jaime.

I threw our arms around him.

Everyone filed in. Jaime asked for Dr. Lyanne. There was a quiet moment. I’d been hoping against hope that she would be here. That she would just appear in the foyer, like she’d appeared in the smoke back at Powatt. Like she’d appeared at our door that last night at Nornand to set us free. Dr. Lyanne had, in so many ways, always appeared when I needed her most.

She wasn’t here now.

Because of me.

Peter started making calls. Everyone else just sat around until Henri drafted Lissa to the kitchen to help him prepare some sort of meal. None of us had eaten since . . . I couldn’t even remember when.

“You all right?” Ryan said, and I nodded. We sat on the couch, curled against each other. His fingers tightened around ours. “I still can’t believe you ran into a building with a bomb in it.”

“I had thirteen minutes,” I whispered. “Sabine told me.”

“What if they didn’t believe you and kept you from leaving? What if Sabine had been lying? What if the bomb had gone off early by accident?”

“I knew it wouldn’t,” I said. “You made it.”

He laughed hollowly.

Where was Sabine now? Had she and Christoph gotten away, in the end? What about Cordelia?

“I can’t believe I let it get that far,” I said softly, our head in the crook of Ryan’s arm. I looked at Jaime, who sat at the dining table, staring at the whorls in the wood. Guilt was acid in our veins. It corroded everything. Our heart. Our lungs. Our throat.

“Don’t,” Ryan said. “Eva, don’t. If we’re going to lay blame, I’ve got a hell of a lot more of it than you. I made the thing.”

Lissa emerged from the kitchen and saw us on the couch. She hesitated, then came over and sat down. Ryan pulled her close, brought her into our circle. Her hair whispered against our cheek. “We made food,” she said quietly.

We had to rearrange the meager furniture, pulling the table to the couches, so everyone could have a seat. Henri brought in a pot of something that piped steam into the air. We all sat. All except Peter, who didn’t join us until bowls had been rustled up, soup had been served.

It was then that we heard the car pulling into the driveway.

The room froze. A picture of fear. Peter, the only one standing, was the first to move again. He gestured for everyone to head toward the bedroom, where we’d be hidden from view. Silently, we obeyed. Ryan lingered back to help me walk, but I was the last to enter the hallway.

So I heard when Peter opened the door.

I saw who was standing on the front porch, face pale, eyes weary, lips pressed in a thin line.

“I’ve snapped one of my heels,” Dr. Lyanne said, holding out the offending shoe.