“Because, little one, you are not allowed to let go.
The best of us hurt the most.”
—Erin Van Vuren
(Fourteen years old)
Pink. Blue. Pink. White.
Jesus.
How many pillows does one little kid need?
My ass is sore from sitting in the same position on the cement for so long, one leg bent with my right arm draped over it. But Katerina’s got another interview going, and I’d rather watch her tiny clone stack pillows than listen to that woman’s voice for another second.
Sofia walks to her cot, picks up her final pillow—pink again—and drags it across the cement, then puts it against the iron bars with the others. I scratch my chin, wondering what the hell she’s doing, when she sits on the ground right behind them.
Squinting, I glance from her to the work table next to us then back again. She made a fucking wall. I mean, the thing is small—five pillows can only get so tall—but for a five or six-year-old, it’s legit. Blocks the work table from her view perfectly.
She’s been here long enough to sense when an interview is coming to a close.
And we all know what comes next.
Blowing out a breath, I rest my head against the wall. It’s been months, and the little girl still hasn’t said a word to anyone. But I’ve learned a lot from spending every day and night across from her. She has exactly three dresses, all white, all ragged with small holes, sometimes strings hanging at the bottom. Her bare feet are dirty, like the rest of ours, and her hair is stringy, due for a bath.
At least I assume she gets a bath.
The rest of us get a five-minute hose down once a month—or those of us who last long enough for it, anyway—but Sofia disappears for half a day each month and always comes back clean.
The clanking of metal snaps my head to the right. The burly, bald guy who does our hose downs is here, unchaining the tear-streaked teen from the work table.
“Wh-what . . . y-you’re letting me go?” The girl’s shaky voice is so hopeful it rips straight through my chest.
She’s got no clue.
Katerina runs a hand down the girl’s skinny arm. “Oh, darling. Our energies just aren’t matching up quite right. It’s my duty as your storyteller to ensure we’re inspiring each other, understand? I’m having trouble getting that connection from you.” She takes a breath and smiles reassuringly. “We have other, more fitting, opportunities for someone as pretty as yourself.”
A shriek leaves the girl’s mouth, but Baldy clamps a hand over her lips and drags her toward the exit.
Katerina stops him at the door. “Send her to Murphy for redistributing, and bring me another crate. Perhaps a boy? Someone with enough fire to pull me out of this horrid slump and get our backlogged orders filled.”
The door closes, and the room falls still.
My pulse ticks faster, my breath strained, when she turns to Sofia. These aren’t feelings I was used to dealing with in the real world—unease, anxiety, helplessness. I’ve been on my own since I was eight, when my mom disappeared while I was out stealing our next meal, and before that we lived together on the streets. I caught on real quick. Emotions, good and bad, get you nowhere—if you’re lucky. Killed, if you’re not. Trust no one but yourself, care for no one but yourself.
Simple.
Even in this room, with strangers’ screams and bright lights constantly beating against my head—the others in the crates next door aren’t so different from me: self-taught to look after themselves. To survive.
We’re more adult than any of the ‘real’ adults here.
Sofia, though, she’s not like us. She’s too young. Too innocent. Pure enough to be molded.
My knuckles curl as Katerina walks to Sofia’s cage. She unlocks it, then sits on her haunches and tilts her head. “Baby, how many times do I have to tell you?” She reaches forward, grabbing each pillow one by one and placing them outside the bars. “This is good for you. Death is a thing of beauty, and it needs to be executed in such a way that does it justice.”
Sofia swallows, but it’s the only sound she makes.
“You will understand when you’re older, working at a table of your own.” Katerina points her index finger and taps her daughter’s nose playfully, and it makes me sick to my stomach. Like she thinks she’s Mom of the Year or something.
She stands and grabs her purse from beside the table then returns to Sofia. My nostrils flare when she pulls out the cuffs for the second time this week, and Sofia’s little body stiffens. Katerina wastes no time looping the things around one of the bars and then her daughter’s wrists.
My growl comes out quiet. Katerina’s head jerks to me.
“What?” I snarl quietly from my spot on the ground, my eyes locked on hers. “Having your own kid in a cage isn’t abusive enough for you?”
Katerina’s eyes spark with something—interest?—and she turns back to her daughter. She gives her a peck on the cheek. “You’ll thank me for this later, baby girl, once you’ve come into your own.”
After a second, she pushes off the ground, locks the cage, and strolls toward me. She stops a foot away and pulls her notepad from the front pocket of her black dress, then flicks glances from me to the pad as she jots something down.
I narrow my eyes. From Mom of the Year to Certified Psychologist.
“This is a real breakthrough, you know,” she murmurs. The scratching of a pen against paper nags at my ears. “I’ve been watching you with her, and I think we’re really getting somewhere.” Finally, the scrawling stops. She sets her blue eyes on me, and when they soften, it creeps me the hell out. “My pretty pet. I knew I was right about you. There’s something genuine here. Vulnerability. Passion.”
Gritting my teeth, I break my gaze to stare at the blank wall to my left. She’s poison, and so are her words. She doesn’t know shit about me. She never will.
The door to the studio creaks open, and I keep my gaze on the wall but follow her movements out of the corner of my eye. A thump hits the ground as a new crate’s lowered off the forklift, then Baldy unlocks it.
Same routine every time.
“Hello, there,” Katerina says sweetly. “Where’s your name card?”
“There isn’t one,” Baldy grunts. “Been on the streets since he was practically in diapers. No one knows his name. Not even him.”
“Is that so?” She’s quiet for a moment. “Approximate age?”
“Eh, this one? Fifteen, maybe.”
“This one is sixteen.”
My gaze snaps to the new guy. He’s skinny, dirty, like the rest of us. His blond hair looks almost brown, his cheekbones are sunken, his nose pointy. He’s still sitting in the crate, peering through the wiry bars, which is weird, because most of them jump out the second it’s opened. Weirder still, he looks as casual as I do—leaning back, almost relaxed.
Who the hell is this guy?
“Watch your goddamn—”
“Hush, Mikey.” Katerina lowers a hand to the guy, and he takes it, letting her pull him to his feet. She cocks her head. “Not a shy one, are you?”
His eyebrow quirks, and he glances around the room. His gaze lands on the work table. The restraints. The silver tray holding a single needle. “Not so shy yourself.”
My lips twitch, but when Katerina chuckles, the unnerving sound wipes my expression clean. “Strap him in,” she instructs.
I watch with rapt attention as the guy voluntarily walks to the table, hops on, then lays back and folds his palms behind his head.
This is a first.
When Baldy and Katerina stare at him blankly, he looks up. “Well?”
Katerina’s mouth curves, and she snatches up her notepad again. With her gaze and her pen locked on the paper, she mutters, “You heard the boy.”
After buckling the restraints without facing a hint of a struggle, Baldy scratches his scalp and turns to leave.
“Hey,” Katerina calls, “bring me a chair, won’t you?” Her gaze drifts back to the table. “I have a feeling this one might put me through some hoops.”
The new guy, staring straight up at the ceiling, grins—fucking grins.
I get the feeling a few hoop tricks is the least of what Katerina has to look forward to.