There’s a long pause before Winston apologizes.

“I’m grateful for your expertise, Raven,” he says. “And maybe you didn’t alter Lennon Rose, but somebody got to her. Something is different.”

“I don’t disagree,” Raven says. “But we have Mena now. She’s ready. She’ll help us.”

“I’m hopeful that you’re right,” he says. “But there was one more issue, one that Leandra brought up to me last we talked. A concern I’m sure my mother shares, as well. It might prove to be a problem down the line.”

I lean closer, wanting to catch every word.

“The boy,” Winston says. “What’s going on there?”

“Boy?” Raven asks.

“The one who helped her escape the academy,” Winston says. “Leandra said they seemed … very close.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Raven says. “And besides, it’s not possible. There’s nothing in their programming that allows them to love. There was no boy like that.”

And it’s this part of the conversation that makes me take a step back. I glance at the ceiling, toward the upstairs rooms, but they said Lennon Rose isn’t here. I can’t sense her presence, either.

Before I get caught, I walk out the same way I came in, closing the door behind me. I get through the neighborhood gate and order a car. I’ll call the girls to let them know what I just heard, and then I’ll meet them at the motel.

I sit on the curb while I wait, thinking about Raven. She knows about Jackson, so she lied to Winston about him. Whether she’s protecting me, Jackson, or herself, I’m not sure.

I’m not sure which side Raven is on.

29

Jackson wasn’t kidding when he complained about his motel. It’s straight out of a horror movie from the ’60s. Run-down, poorly lit, and even the VACANCY sign has several lights out. After I get dropped off, I find the correct room and knock.

Jackson pulls the door open, but his breath catches when he sees the state of me. At his reaction, I look down and remember that I’m in rough shape—a bit dirty and kind of bloody.

“Hi,” I say brightly when I look at him again.

“Jesus,” he replies, running his hand through his hair. “Why are you always covered in blood?” he murmurs. “Get in here.”

He hops to the side so I can walk past him, and then he closes the door and locks it. Marcella and Brynn sit on the second bed while the shower runs in the bathroom.

“Sydney’s cleaning up,” he says, and then notices the tear in my dress. “I’m about to fucking lose it, though,” he adds darkly.

“I’m okay,” I tell him.

“Sydney had a bat,” Brynn calls out to him. Jackson widens his eyes and turns from her to me.

“Good,” he says. “Hope she swung for the fences.”

“Nice place,” I say, looking around.

“No, it’s awful,” he says easily, and limps over to the bed to push a backpack and water container onto the floor. “Sit down,” he says, patting the mattress. “Can I get you anything?”

I shake my head no. “By the way,” I add. “Sorry about the voicemail.”

His cheeks flush, and he shrugs that it’s fine. I look sideways at Marcella, and she lifts her eyebrows curiously.

Sydney comes out of the bathroom in a towel, her hair wrapped up in another. She places her hand on her chest in relief when she sees me. She comes to join me on the bed, and the others crowd around while I tell them everything I heard at Winston’s house.

“I hope Claire’s okay,” Brynn says.

“I’m sure she is,” I say, although I have no idea. Then again, I don’t imagine Raven would hurt her. Fix her? Yes. Maybe spy on her on bit. But not destroy her. Not with the way she loves our tech.

Sydney tries to brush my hair off my forehead, but it’s stiff from dried sweat. “You should take a shower,” she says. “And Jackson has a first aid kit if you need help with those scrapes on your thigh.”

Jackson flinches at the idea of me being hurt, but he doesn’t look over. “Yeah, I’ll clean it up for you if you want,” he says.

“He’s weirdly good at it,” Sydney says. “Like a little medic.” He laughs.

“That’d be great,” I tell him. Jackson seems sad, but I have to admit that although there’s still so much wrong, being with the girls and with Jackson instantly feels like home.

I get up and cross to the bathroom, closing the door to shower.

* * *

Hot water and torn skin are a terrible mix. When I’m done showering, in a significant higher amount of pain than when I started, I wrap myself in a towel and call to Jackson. I sit on the edge of the tub and he pokes his head in the doorway nervously, as if making sure I’m dressed. I wave him in.

The room is still a little steamy, but it dissipates quickly. I watch as Jackson sets up a first aid station on the counter, and when he’s done, he puts his crutches aside and finds his balance.

“Show me,” he says, motioning to my leg.

I push up the edge of the towel to show him the scratches on my outer thigh. They look worse than I imagined, and Jackson winces when he sees them. He eases into a kneeling position in front of me.

“I don’t think of you like that, you know,” he says, opening one of the alcohol pads.

“Like what?” I ask.

“I don’t think of you as a machine,” he says, looking up at me. “And I don’t think of you as a status symbol. Both the investor and those guys at Ridgeview are wrong.”

“What do you think of me as?” I ask. “And you can’t say ‘a person.’ ” I smile at him. He reaches to tenderly wipe my scrape with the alcohol, and I suck in a breath and grip his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he whispers, finishing up before getting a gauze pad.

“I think of you as Mena,” he says simply as he tapes the edges. “Just … Mena. No other label required.” He pauses with his eyes lowered.

“I’m kind of in love with you too,” he adds quietly. “I just… I don’t know what I want to do about that yet.” He looks up at me again. “Is that okay?” he asks.

I nod that it is, my heart beating faster. We stare at each other, close together in a motel bathroom as he kneels on the dirtiest floor I’ve ever seen.

“It’s understandable,” I add, starting to smile. “I’m the rebel type. That’s what the investor told me at his house when he thought we were going to kill him.”

“Huh, did he now?” Jackson replies, getting up to put the first aid supplies back inside the box. “Since he was being so revealing, did he admit to being the creepy perverted type? Or was he the raging sex-monster type?”

“The first one, I think,” I say, pretending to be sure.

Jackson shakes his head and then grabs his crutches. “Come on,” he says, reaching out his hand to help me up. “I was going to buy us candy from the vending machine.”

“Always saying the right thing,” I say, slowly letting his fingers slide from mine as we walk back out into the room with the others.