Quentin throws up his hands in annoyance. “Whatever,” he says. “I’m tired anyway. Where are the beds in this place?”

Sydney points up the stairs and he thanks her before walking away. Jackson calls after him that he’ll be up in a minute, but he makes no move to go that way. Instead, he looks at me.

“I think Sydney’s right,” Jackson says, earning a quick smile from her. “This Imogene, if she knows what’s happened to you, to her, she would want to fight. And … I don’t think her husband would just walk away from a multimillion-dollar investment.”

“You think he’ll be back?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Jackson says. “And I don’t think he’ll be alone.”

“Then should we leave now?” I ask. The idea of being attacked again is real and terrifying. I wrap my arms around myself, a flash of our battle with Guardian Bose playing across my mind.

“We can’t leave yet,” Sydney says. She motions to her outfit. “I need a shower and a change of clothes, at least.”

“She’s right again,” Jackson says. “I think we all need some rest. A few hours and then we can hit the road.”

My expression must give away my despair, because Jackson pouts his lips just slightly. “It’s going to be okay, Mena,” he adds. “I promise.”

I know he can’t promise a thing like that, but I appreciate his kindness. In my entire existence, the only kindness I’ve ever felt was given to me by the other girls. He’s the first boy, the first human, to treat me like my life matters. It doesn’t make him special, but it does make him decent.

Sydney and I decide we’ll stay in the same room without saying it aloud. Jackson yawns, rubbing roughly at his eyes.

“Come on,” I say. “I’ll help you upstairs before the girls and I shower.” I go over to put my arm around his waist, and he leans his shoulder into me and hops a few steps. He seems significantly worse than he was earlier. I notice how his skin has gotten waxy in appearance, his body radiating heat.

Annalise and Sydney go ahead of us, and Jackson grunts when he straightens out his leg at the top of the stairs on the landing. He smiles, embarrassed, and I find his vulnerability endearing. The fact that he shows it to me helps me feel real.

Several weeks ago, Jackson came to find me at Innovations Academy after a chance meeting in a gas station. A seemingly romantic gesture. In reality he was investigating his mother’s death. Investigating Innovations Academy. The fact that we like each other is irrelevant. Once we started to realize what was really going on at the academy, he wanted to save us. But instead we saved ourselves and he broke his leg. He drove the getaway car, but now I’m helping him to walk. It’s hard to say who’s helping who at this point. But I’m glad he’s here, even if every second he’s with us puts him in danger.

There are people after us—Leandra said so. The corporation isn’t just going to let their girls walk away. They think they own us. And that’s why we have to destroy them.

The anger returns in such a swift cut that I flinch and begin to move Jackson down the hall, avoiding his quizzical look.

I push open a door and find an empty bed in a nearly empty room. I help Jackson inside, and he eases down on the bed. He stares at his leg like he’s mad at it for breaking in the first place.

“Do you … Do you need any help?” I ask. He shakes his head no.

“I’ll be fine,” he says. “But thank you. Have a good night, Mena.”

I back toward the door, wondering how he’s going to get his pants and shoes off, but I leave him to ask for help if he needs it. “Good night,” I whisper.

I slip out and head to the end of the hall, where a door is slightly ajar. The bedroom here is large, and I see Sydney’s clothes in a pile on the floor near the bathroom door, the shower going just beyond.

While she’s showering, I take the time to walk around the room, checking the drawers. I’m relieved when I find various items of clothing. I’m not sure whose room this was—Imogene didn’t mention anyone else living here—but I pull out a T-shirt and hold it up, finding it’s massively oversized. Next, I take out a pair of cotton shorts that will easily fall below my knees. But they’re clean and I’ll be grateful to shed the bloody garments clinging to my skin.

The shower turns off, and a few moments later Sydney comes out wrapped in a towel. She meets my eyes, her skin cleared of all blood while I stand bathed in it. I realize this blood is the contrast of where we came from to where we are. Her brown eyes begin to well up, and suddenly we’re both crying.

And even though I’m dirty, she opens her arms to me and we crash together, sobbing into each other’s shoulders.

“He tried to kill me,” she whimpers.

“They hate us,” I say at the same time.

Our hearts are broken as we process the traumas of our existence. And yet, we carefully avoid our biggest secret.

We’re not human. How can we possibly go on from that?

When we pull back, Sydney reaches over to brush my bloody hair away from my face. She presses her lips into a soft smile.

“I love you,” she says, and I close my eyes, needing to hear it.

“I love you too,” I whisper back.

We stay together for a moment longer before Sydney sniffles and quickly rubs under her eyes. Her white towel has pink stains from where I hugged her.

“Can I ask you something?” she says as I start to undress to get in the shower.

“Of course,” I reply.

“How do you think Marcella knew about this place?” she asks.

I turn to her, confused. “What do you mean?”

“In the car, she just thought of Imogene,” Sydney says. “Why?”

“She said it was like Valentine hearing the flowers,” I recall. Although the moment I say that, I realize the problem. Valentine heard the flowers when she was breaking down. I heard the flowers when I was getting impulse control therapy. But I didn’t hear Imogene in the car. Why did Marcella?

“Do you think we can hear the others?” Sydney asks, whispering it. “The girls still at the academy?”

“I don’t know,” I say. We wait a beat, both listening. I’m disappointed when I can’t hear the others. The idea that they might be lost to us is unbearable.

“We need to find someone who understands our programming,” I say. “Perhaps we’re all connected in a way we don’t realize. I swear, sometimes it feels like I can hear your thoughts.…”

This makes Sydney smile, but it’s disrupted by a yawn. “Mind if I turn out the light and get into bed while you’re in the shower?”

I tell her I don’t mind. As she walks to the bed, I drop my pile of bloody clothes on top of hers and take the clean ones into the bathroom with me.

* * *

By the time I come out of the shower, Sydney is asleep, breathing softly through parted lips. The world outside is silent behind the thick-paned windows, but the room is too dark and my skin prickles with fear.

The Guardian would come into my room at night. He would watch me. He would hurt me. I was vulnerable and couldn’t fight back. And although he’s gone, dead and destroyed, his shadow still looms over me. I can’t sleep just yet. I can’t sleep in the dark.