Wesley couldn’t stand it. He understood why the Readers stood for what they did now. They felt the same way—that they weren’t being treated fairly as soldiers, as American citizens.
“You’re not doing that,” Wesley said, between his ruptured sobs. “Because you’re not dying.”
For the first time in two days, Rex lifted his head.
Over his shoulder, Wesley looked at him, sure that his face was as red as his father’s now. It was swollen too, like his dad had drunk nothing but beer for three days straight. His blue eyes were faded to a washed gray, and the whites of them were turning yellow.
Holding his exhausted stare, Wesley stated with emphasis on every word, “I will not let you die.”
He picked up the razor for a second time, moving a bit quicker this time. Lifting his leg, his thigh muscles wanted to immediately give up after not being used for so long, but he managed to wrap himself around the toilet, passing the razor between his foot and his hand. He held it between his palms, feeling every groove of it with his fingers, even along the blade, making sure it was sharp. It caught on the dry pads of his fingers.
With quick controlled movements, he began to saw at the zip ties. It didn’t come as easily as he’d hoped due to the unnatural angle and the way the razor blades were sitting. Plus the soreness of his wrists being forced to rub against one another made him start to bleed, drops of it trickling down his middle finger.
He couldn’t see the type of mess he was making, his face pressed hard against the cool tank of the toilet.
It took a long time, close to an hour or two of sawing and bleeding to get his wrists out.
He tried to stand up and immediately fell against the wall behind him, clipping his head on the way down. The entire bathroom was spinning. His wrists—finally free, but covered in red—floated in front of his eyes like the hands of a devil reaching out for a hit, stretching his fingers as his vision blurred.
“Wesley.”
His dad’s voice brought him back into his own head.
Wesley blinked hard.
Using the toilet to help himself to his feet, Wesley moved to saw at the zip ties on his dad’s wrist, but gave up after realizing there were several blisters on the inside of his hand, threatening to pop and pull with every rip of the razor. He dropped the razor, grabbed the shower ring on the wall and yanked as hard as he could.
That, at least, was easier than he’d thought.
The ring ripped right out of the drywall, his hand still screaming at him. But Wesley figured that if he was going to be in that much pain that he might as well make it short and extreme instead of drawn out and consistent. Over the night, Wesley did manage to carve his way through the zip ties around his dad’s wrist with regular breaks and room to freak out in between. His anxiety was at an all-time high. But he had to stay brave. Eyes forward. All he had to do now was wait.
Chapter 16
Kennedy Tennison-Weick
Seattle, Washington
The bedroom was a mess, and it was starting to smell a bit too. Mom had always made sure she kept it clean but without her here, things had gone downhill in Seattle. Aunt Christina and Uncle Rob weren’t very tidy people, and Kennedy knew they let her get away with too much. They let her have ice cream for dinner and stay out late with her friends. Like the hotel in London, it had been fun at first—being alone and having all that freedom, especially after being a hostage—but the fun wore off.
The envelope was on the windowsill, the edge of it fluttering in the cooled air coming through a vent. Next to it, there was an open John Green book, the spine worn from reading it too many times. Twenty-One Pilots pumped out from her laptop as she stared at the envelope and chewed on the side of her finger.
It was addressed to her mom. Her mom wasn’t going to be able to read it anytime soon and the return address—the name on it was one that Kennedy recognized. It was from the guy that had protected her from the sniper that had killed Mrs. Babich and that big soldier, Ratanake. He had held her while she cried into his chest.
Wesley was always the one to take the initiative. He was the one that had reached out to Laird in the first place.
Kennedy was going to open the letter regardless, but she was fighting between asking for permission and asking for forgiveness. Her mom was hard enough to get a hold of nowadays anyway. Potentially, it could be one call to ask and then another call to explain what it said so she decided on begging for forgiveness.
With two fingers and then with her teeth, Kennedy ripped open the envelope, spreading out the letter over her desk, shoving her laptop back so she could have more space. She read it quickly, trying to understand what was going on and to decipher Laird’s handwriting. She snapped a picture, Kennedy’s thumbs moving quickly across the screen.
Somebody knocked on the door.
“Kennedy?” Aunt Christina called.
“Just a sec,” Kennedy said. Now, of all times, her aunt wanted to talk to her. It was clear they felt awkward being here because of the whole divorce thing and because Kennedy’s dad was dead. The thought hurt her. It caused her stomach to twist into knots. Unable to get the picture clear because her fingers were trembling, Kennedy let out a frustrated groan, hearing her mother in it for a second as she went to grab the handle of the door.
“What?” Kennedy hissed.
Christina was her dad’s younger sister, with mousy brown hair and wide blue eyes. She was chubby
