I fold myself to the floor across from Warner. Pull my knees up to my chest. Focus on the stone under my feet. “I don’t hate you.”

Warner seems to stop breathing.

“I think I understand you sometimes,” I tell him. “I really do. But just when I think I finally get you, you surprise me. And I never really know who you are or who you’re going to be.” I look up. “But I know that I don’t hate you anymore. I’ve tried,” I say, “I’ve tried so hard. Because you’ve done so many terrible, terrible things. To innocent people. To me. But I know too much about you now. I’ve seen too much. You’re too human.”

His hair is so gold. His eyes so green. His voice is tortured when he speaks. “Are you saying,” he says, “that you want to be my friend?”

“I-I don’t know.” I’m so petrified, so, so petrified of this possibility. “I didn’t think about that. I’m just saying that I don’t know”—I hesitate, breathe—“I don’t know how to hate you anymore. Even though I want to. I really want to and I know I should but I just can’t.”

He looks away.

And he smiles.

It’s the kind of smile that makes me forget how to do everything but blink and blink and I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I don’t know why I can’t convince my eyes to find something else to focus on.

I don’t know why my heart is losing its mind.

He touches my notebook like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. His fingers run the length of the cover once, twice, before he registers where my eyes have gone and he stops.

“You wrote these words?” He touches the notebook again. “Every single one?”

I nod.

He says, “Juliette.”

I stop breathing.

He says, “I would like that very much. To be your friend,” he says. “I’d like that.”

And I don’t really know what happens in my brain.

Maybe it’s because he’s broken and I’m foolish enough to think I can fix him. Maybe it’s because I see myself, I see 3, 4, 5, 6, 17-year-old Juliette abandoned, neglected, mistreated, abused for something outside of her control and I think of Warner as someone who’s just like me, someone who was never given a chance at life. I think about how everyone already hates him, how hating him is a universally accepted fact.

Warner is horrible.

There are no discussions, no reservations, no questions asked. It has already been decided that he is a despicable human being who thrives on murder and power and torturing others.

But I want to know. I need to know. I have to know.

If it’s really that simple.

Because what if one day I slip? What if one day I fall through the cracks and no one is willing to pull me back? What happens to me then?

So I meet his eyes. I take a deep breath.

And I run.

I run right out the door.

FIFTY-ONE

Just a moment.

Just 1 second, just 1 more minute, just give me another hour or maybe the weekend to think it over it’s not so much it’s not so hard it’s all we ever ask for it’s a simple request.

But the moments the seconds the minutes the hours the days and years become one big mistake, one extraordinary opportunity slipped right through our fingers because we couldn’t decide, we couldn’t understand, we needed more time, we didn’t know what to do.

We don’t even know what we’ve done.

We have no idea how we even got here when all we ever wanted was to wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night and maybe stop for ice cream on the way home and that one decision, that one choice, that one accidental opportunity unraveled everything we’ve ever known and ever believed in and what do we do?

What do we do

from here?

FIFTY-TWO

Things are getting worse.

The tension among the citizens of Omega Point is getting tighter with each passing hour. We’ve tried to make contact with Anderson’s men to no avail—we’ve heard nothing from their team or their soldiers, and we have no updates on our hostages. But the civilians of Sector 45—the sector Warner used to be in charge of, the sector he used to oversee—are beginning to grow more and more unsettled. Rumors about us and our resistance are spreading too quickly.

The Reestablishment tried to cover up the news of our recent battle by calling it a standard attack on rebel party members, but the people are getting smarter. Protests are breaking out among them and some are refusing to work, standing up to authority, trying to escape the compounds, and running back to unregulated territory.

It never ends well.

The losses have been too many and Castle is anxious to do something. We all have a feeling we’re going to be heading out again, and soon. We haven’t received any reports that Anderson is dead, which means he’s probably just biding his time—or maybe Adam is right, and he’s just recovering. But whatever the reason, Anderson’s silence can’t be good.

“What are you doing here?” Castle says to me.

I’ve just collected my dinner. I’ve just sat down at my usual table with Adam and Kenji and James. I blink at Castle, confused.

Kenji says, “What’s going on?”

Adam says, “Is everything all right?”

Castle says, “My apologies, Ms. Ferrars, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I confess I’m just a bit surprised to see you here. I thought you were currently on assignment.”

“Oh.” I startle. Glance at my food and back at Castle again. “I—well yes, I am—but I’ve talked to Warner twice already—I actually just saw him yesterday—”

“Oh, that’s excellent news, Ms. Ferrars. Excellent news.” Castle clasps his hands together; his face is the picture of relief. “And what have you been able to discover?” He looks so hopeful that I actually begin to feel ashamed of myself.

Everyone is staring at me and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.

I shake my head.

“Ah.” Castle drops his hands. Looks down. Nods to himself. “So. You’ve decided that your two visits have been more than sufficient?” He won’t look at me. “What is your professional opinion, Ms. Ferrars? Do you think it would be best to take your time in this particular situation? That Winston and Brendan will be relaxing comfortably until you find an opportunity in your busy schedule to interrogate the only person who might be able to help us find them? Do you think that y—”

“I’ll go right now.” I grab my tray and jump up from table, nearly tripping over myself in the process. “I’m sorry—I’m just—I’ll go right now. I’ll see you guys at breakfast,” I whisper, and run out the door.

Brendan and Winston

Brendan and Winston

Brendan and Winston, I keep telling myself.

I hear Kenji laughing as I leave.

I’m not very good at interrogation, apparently.

I have so many questions for Warner but none of them have to do with our hostage situation. Every time I tell myself I’m going to ask the right questions, Warner somehow manages to distract me. It’s almost like he knows what I’m going to ask and is already prepared to redirect the conversation.

It’s confusing.

“Do you have any tattoos?” he’s asking me, smiling as he leans back against the wall in his undershirt; pants on, socks on, shoes off. “Everyone seems to have tattoos these days.”

This is not a conversation I ever thought I’d have with Warner.

“No,” I tell him. “I’ve never had an opportunity to get one. Besides, I don’t think anyone would ever want to get that close to my skin.”

He studies his hands. Smiles. Says, “Maybe someday.”

“Maybe,” I agree.

A pause.

“So what about your tattoo?” I ask. “Why IGNITE?”

His smile is bigger now. Dimples again. He shakes his head, says, “Why not?”

“I don’t get it.” I tilt my head at him, confused. “You want to remind yourself to catch on fire?”

He smiles, presses back a laugh. “A handful of letters doesn’t always make a word, love.”

“I … have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He takes a deep breath. Sits up straighter. “So,” he says. “You used to read a lot?”

I’m caught off guard. It’s a strange question, and I can’t help but wonder for a moment if it’s a trick. If admitting to such a thing might get me into trouble. And then I remember that Warner is my hostage, not the other way around. “Yes,” I say to him. “I used to.”

His smile fades into something a bit more serious, calculated. His features are carefully wiped clean of emotion. “And when did you have a chance to read?”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs slowly, glances at nothing across the room. “It just seems strange that a girl who’s been so wholly isolated her entire life would have much access to literature. Especially in this world.”

I say nothing.

He says nothing.

I breathe a few beats before answering him.

“I … I never got to choose my own books,” I tell him, and I don’t know why I feel so nervous saying this out loud, why I have to remind myself not to whisper. “I read whatever was available. My schools always had little libraries and my parents had some things around the house. And later …” I hesitate. “Later, I spent a couple of years in hospitals and psychiatric wards and a juvenile d-detention center.” My face enflames as if on cue, always ready to be ashamed of my past, of who I’ve been and continue to be.

But it’s strange.

While one part of me struggles to be so candid, another part of me actually feels comfortable talking to Warner. Safe. Familiar.

Because he already knows everything about me.

He knows every detail of my 17 years. He has all of my medical records, knows all about my incidents with the police and the painful relationship I have had with my parents. And now he’s read my notebook, too.

There’s nothing I could reveal about my history that would surprise him; nothing about what I’ve done would shock or horrify him. I don’t worry that he’ll judge me or run away from me.

And this realization, perhaps more than anything else, rattles my bones.

And gives me some sense of relief.

“There were always books around,” I continue, somehow unable to stop now, eyes glued to the floor. “In the detention center. A lot of them were old and worn and didn’t have covers, so I didn’t always know what they were called or who wrote them. I just read anything I could find. Fairy tales and mysteries and history and poetry. It didn’t matter what it was. I would read it over and over and over again. The books … they helped keep me from losing my mind altogether …” I trail off, catching myself before I say much more. Horrified as I realize just how much I want to confide in him. In Warner.

Terrible, terrible Warner who tried to kill Adam and Kenji. Who made me his toy.

I hate that I should feel safe enough to speak so freely around him. I hate that of all people, Warner is the one person I can be completely honest with. I always feel like I have to protect Adam from me, from the horror story that is my life. I never want to scare him or tell him too much for fear that he’ll change his mind and realize what a mistake he’s made in trusting me; in showing me affection.