Page 32 of Because I Killed Him
I’d no longer be helpless. I wouldn’t have to lean on Edmund, Harrison, Charlotte, or Dad for protection. I could protect myself.
“We can’t leave Jane here,” I text Charlotte.
Charlotte squints at the girl, then texts, “Why not? Is she a friend of yours?”
“No. We just met once. A year ago.”
“Oh, well…”Charlotte turns toward the door of the blue first-year carriage.“I’m sorry, Lore. I can’t swing it. The private salons cap at five people, and Edmund already has Jack and Dickie. Once you and I join, that’s it.”
“Edmund’s a high-citizen,” I text.“He could invite ten people, and the Coppers would carry in the extra chairs themselves.”
“Maybe. But I’m already pushing my luck just asking him. I’m not pushing it further. And neither should you.”
She’s right.
But I’m still not ready to give up.
The Pinkie finishes scanning tickets and returns to the front of the carriage, where it speaks to the Copper in quiet, coded tones. In response, the Copper ties the dogs to a grab pole and checks his pocket watch. Too long he stares at it, as if timing a bomb strapped to the bottom of my seat. I glance back at the lavatory, wondering how long it would take me to grab Charlotte and Jane, then barricade the three of us inside.
The Copper snaps his watch shut and turns to the digital map near the exit. He traces his thumb along the lit route until he finds our location. I pull up the same route through my Bond. There are a few towns ahead, butmostly farmland, forest, and mountains. I zoom in on the ranges and spot the tunnels, each marked by length. The longest tunnel is only a few minutes away, four miles of darkness, limited visibility, and isolation. Maybe even a jammed internet connection.
If the Copper is planning a hit, that tunnel is his window.
“How much longer until Jack gets here?”I text Charlotte.
“He didn’t say.”
“But you told him it’s an emergency, right?”
“Of course, but if he’s drunk—and he usually is—that word will go in one ear and out the other.”
An alcoholic. Perfect.
I check the map again and see we’re three miles from the tunnel. Less than two minutes.
I squeeze the daffodil brooch pinned to my dress, trying to appear calm as I count down the seconds. Just when my heart feels like it might burst through my ribcage, the door of the blue first-year carriage swings open.
Every head in our carriage swivels toward it.
The man in the doorway is short for a Green, close to six feet tall, with thrill-seeking eyes and beer-brown hair marked by the imprint of a hoverbike helmet. A square jaw offsets his rugged nose, and his build is thick with muscle. He has the look of someone who rests easy, like if the train malfunctioned and fell out of the sky, he’d spend the free fall lighting the cigarette tucked between his teeth. He slips a silver flask into the breast pocket of his two-button suit and strolls down the aisle, parking himself beside our row.
“Hey, darling. Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Jack scans Charlotte’s face, taking in all the cosmetic surgery, and grunts. “Looks like I was right.”
Charlotte’s throat bobs as if she’s swallowing back vomit. Whether it’s because she’s nervous to see Jack or because the whiskey on his breath is strong enough to gas a small village, I can’t tell.
“You, there.” The Copper calls to Jack. “Passengers are prohibited from switching carriages during travel.”
“Oh, I’m not switching,” Jack says, jerking a thumb at us. “Just swinging by for a pickup.”
The Copper’s hand locks into a fist, his leather glove squeaking. “How dare you address me informally, sir. Where is your identification?”
Jack sways toward him cockily. Around us, students start whispering, and one activates their Bond to record. The Copper rips off Jack’s glove, but when he lifts his scanner, the world goes dark.
Charlotte presses close as we speed into the tunnel, gripping my arm with both hands. “Miss Waldsten, can you make out what is happening?”
“No.”
The carriage lights have gone out, and the security cameras show no status indicators either. I reach out, fingers brushing only air. It’s too dark to see past my own nose, let alone anyone else’s. Up ahead, someone lights the aisle with a cigarette lighter, enough to reveal rows of ghostly shapes. I stand, heart pounding, listening for every whisper, every squeak of a seat, every shift of a body. Somewhere in the dark, I hear the sharp beep of a scan.
