“Yeah,” Sydney agrees. “It smells super weird in here.”

Brynn reaches our group and looks back toward the bedroom before leaning in closer. “The fireplace,” she whispers. “There are burned things in there. Like, personal-looking things.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Like a body?”

Brynn falls back a step. “What? No. What?” she repeats.

“What kinds of things?” Marcella asks.

“Like papers and metal, picture frames. Objects she’s burned,” Brynn says. “I don’t know what they could be.”

“Not bodies,” Marcella says, turning to me. “Pretty dark, Mena.”

I guess after the night we’ve had, my mind immediately imagines the worst. Then again, we’re in the worst of it. Dr. Groger did burn up girls. I sway at the thought, closing my eyes to block it out. Marcella sighs deeply and leans in closer to talk to us.

“Maybe after her husband left, she got rid of stuff,” Marcella says. “I would do the same. He sounds awful. And you saw her wrists.”

“He hurt her,” Sydney says somberly. “Probably for a long time. She doesn’t even look the same.”

“Then I’m glad he’s gone too,” Marcella says.

We stand silently before I look out the window. It won’t be long until the sun is up. “We should get some sleep,” I suggest. “I’ll grab Annalise and the others, and then we’ll find our beds.”

“Brynn and I will head up now,” Marcella says. “I need to wash this off.” She holds up her arm, and I see streaks of Annalise’s blood on her light brown skin. I think we’re all soaked in it.

“Good night,” Brynn tells us before reaching out her hand to Marcella. The two of them walk toward the staircase to the second floor. “See you in the morning,” she calls back to us.

“See you then,” I reply.

Sydney loops her arm through mine, but there’s no relief in her touch this time. We’re both tired and sore. We want this all to be over, but we know it’s just the start of our fight. We’re already exhausted. Sydney walks out to the car with me, and I find Jackson sitting in the backseat with the door open. I relay to him what Imogene told us, but because Quentin is listening, I leave out the part about her knowing about our programming. Annalise has her eyes closed, but I’m not sure if she’s asleep or just quiet.

Jackson looks at Quentin. “What do you think, man?” he asks him. “Should we stay here tonight and figure out where to go tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, Jackie. Is this girl’s … husband …” He looks at me. “You said she’s married?” I nod. “Okay, is this girl’s husband going to show up and cause a scene if we stay here?”

“She said he’s gone,” I tell him. “It doesn’t sound like he’s coming back.”

Quentin seems to debate what to do. “What kind of school … ?” he murmurs, and climbs out of the passenger seat. Just as he does, Annalise opens her eyes.

“I need a shower,” she says. “I feel like death.” She walks ahead with Quentin and Sydney, leaving Jackson and me at the car.

“Do you really think we’ll be all right here?” he asks.

“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “You’ve done enough for us.”

He laughs. “I know I don’t have to. That’s not what I asked. This girl … She’s not like that other woman, right? The one who killed the doctor?”

I meet his eyes, refusing to lie to him.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Jackson scratches his head, surveying the house. After a long moment, he shrugs. “Fuck it,” he says recklessly. And then he holds out his arm to me so I can help him limp inside.

2

Imogene is nowhere in sight when I get Jackson inside the house. I bring him to lean against the kitchen counter, and then I go over to talk to Sydney and Annalise at the dining room table. Quentin sits uncomfortably on the stiff-looking couch near the fireplace. He puts his finger under his nose.

“It smells nasty in here,” he comments. “Is that burnt plastic?”

Sydney shrugs and taps my hand, subtly nodding toward Annalise.

We both turn that way, finding Annalise rubbing her right temple. It’s strange to look at her now, how different she is. Her new eye is brown while the other is green. The deep cuts across her face are shiny ridges, piecing her together, changing her facial structure. But she is still Annalise.

And to prove it, she sighs and says, “Smells more like rotten garbage to me. We’re leaving first thing in the morning or I’ll puke.”

“Where do we go?” Sydney asks quietly. “How do we find the corporation?”

“Our parents?” I ask. Sydney flinches at my use of the word.

“Stop calling them that,” she murmurs.

“What was the card that Leandra gave you?” Annalise asks me, setting her elbows on the table. “Just before we left the academy, she handed you something.”

I’d forgotten about the card. I reach into my pocket until I feel the pointed edge of the rectangular card. I take it out and look it over. “It’s a business card,” I say, holding it out to Annalise. “For Winston Weeks.”

Annalise examines it, but when she’s done, she says nothing and hands it back.

“So we’re on our own?” Sydney asks.

“No,” I say. “We’re with each other. But we can’t trust anyone else.”

“What about this Imogene person?” Jackson asks, startling me. I look back over my shoulder to find him still at the counter, listening to us.

“Definitely not,” Sydney says. Surprised, I turn to her. “You don’t think it’s weird that she’s just sitting alone in her house at four a.m. drinking wine?” she asks.

“To be fair,” I say, “we showed up at four a.m. covered in blood, so I’m not sure we can judge.”

“Where’s her husband?” Sydney asks. “And why won’t she fight? She said she was content. No one who read those poems would claim to be content. She should be fighting for all of us. Not just thinking about herself.”

“And why is she married in the first place?” Quentin calls from the couch. We all look at him, but no one answers. He doesn’t know the truth about the academy. None of us jump to explain it.

Jackson shifts, moaning when he does. He reaches down to rub his leg.

“And what are you going to do about that?” Quentin asks him impatiently. “At least get some ice on it.”

“It’s nothing,” Jackson says.

“Uh-huh,” Quentin says. “You should probably go to the hospital, but fine, be a stubborn ass. You’re gonna end up there, regardless. Sit in pain—great fucking plan, Jackie.”

Jackson smiles. “Yeah, man. Love you too.”

Annalise gives me a sideways glance, her scar catching the light. We aren’t used to hanging out with boys. Their lack of manners is intriguing, not threatening in the same way it was with our professors. But maybe it’s just these boys.