26

Even if she weren’t at the mercy of strangers, Violet should have wakened Khloe first thing. They should have taken turns in the shower, whispered plans or commiseration, performed the bracelet-bump, and gone downstairs side by side. Violet shouldn’t have crept to the closet for fresh clothes and glanced over her shoulder to make sure Khloe’s eyes hadn’t opened.

She showered in five minutes and pulled on a blue V-neck shirt and a pair of Capri jeans that sagged a bit at the hips. Whatever. They wouldn’t fall down, and she hadn’t seen any belts in the closet. Okay, now for breakfast. Her stomach rumbled, but her feet held back. She wasn’t scared, not exactly. Belinda wasn’t going to poison her. Marcus wasn’t going to hit her. But facing them prickled every nerve in her spine. Violet pulled in a breath. They knew what she’d done. She knew what they’d done, were still doing. Go down and face them. Like an adult. And do what Lee had told her to do—watch and form her own opinions.

Lee was halfway down the stairs when Violet reached the top. She spotted Violet through the banister and waited for her. Her short black hair gleamed, still damp. Her jeans and crew-neck top fit too perfectly to be on loan from Belinda’s closetfuls. Maybe she kept a change of clothes in her car.

“Good morning.” The words held complete calm. This version of Lee didn’t know how to hyperventilate.

Who are you really? “Hi, Lee.”

Lee continued down the stairs. Violet was obviously supposed to follow. At the bottom, she halted again but didn’t meet Violet’s eyes.

“I would appreciate your discretion regarding what … happened to me last night.”

“I don’t really have anyone to tell. Marcus won’t even look at me, and I won’t tell Belinda, either, if that’s what you want.”

Lee’s glance ricocheted off Violet. “Thank you.”

They entered the kitchen without further words. The scent of bacon and eggs enveloped Violet along with Belinda’s buoyant twang.

“You’ve got no reason to doubt my eggs. You’ve never tasted them before.”

On one side of the stove, Belinda wore her orange apron over a flowered housedress and stood over a deep-bottomed skillet. At the other burner, clad in carpenter jeans and a fresh ivory T-shirt, Marcus bent his head over a smaller skillet.

“It’s not doubt,” he said.

“Get away from here.” Belinda shooed at him with her free hand and flipped something with the spatula.

“I can flip eggs.”

“I don’t need you flipping anything. Just go sit at the table.”

“And Lee likes them scrambled. Don’t make them all for me.”

“I’m not planning on over-easy for all of them. I got plenty of eggs, and I got plenty of kitchen savvy, so you go sit down and stop pestering me before I send you home with no breakfast.”

He reached for the spatula.

“Marcus!” Belinda shoulder-bumped his arm.

He didn’t budge. A smile creased around his eyes. “They’re done.”

“Go. Sit. I’m fixing this food, not you.”

He turned, and his gaze landed on Lee and Violet with a quick furrow of confusion, as if surprised to find an ally and an enemy side by side. “Hi.”

“Good morning, though not morning for long.” Lee pulled out a stool from the counter bar.

Marcus’s mouth twitched. “Belinda wants us in the dining room.”

“That’s right. Everybody in the dining room, out of my kitchen. I’ll bring the food when it’s done.”

Restrained amusement glimmered in Lee’s eyes. Marcus glanced from her to Belinda with another twitch of smile. Violet followed them both through the kitchen to the connecting dining room. Lee crossed in front of Marcus, and his fingers curled at his side. Like last night, they were about to touch each other and then didn’t.

Marcus sat, folded his arms on the table, and frowned. “You sleep? You look tired.”

Lee sat across from him. “I’m fine.”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“You seem rested,” Lee said, and he nodded again.

A silence closed in, asking “How do we talk with a spy standing here?” Violet focused her attention on the closest item, a chair tucked into the table. Should she sit? She traced one of the swirling leaves carved into the back. On the far wall, the clock’s second hand seemed to tick too slowly. Maybe the battery was dying. Maybe the seconds felt stuck because nothing filled them but bacon grease, hissing from the kitchen.

“How’s the baby?” Marcus said.

“Seven pounds, two ounces, and nursing well.”

“Wren?”

“Given a few days to recover, she’ll be fine.”

Belinda hustled in from the kitchen as Lee spoke. She carried a plate in each hand, one of eggs, half over-easy and half scrambled; the other of steaming pancakes and bacon. “You know she’s welcome here as long as she needs.”

Her tone held nothing uncommon, as if she and her husband often sheltered people for days or weeks. This must be how the network operated. Violet had expected Marcus to rush Wren to a new location immediately, but, then, he hadn’t done that with her and Khloe, either. Maybe fugitives stayed here until they had a permanent place to go.

Lee pulled out the chair beside her. “Sit, Violet.”

Robot legs carried her to obedience. She pressed her back to the chair and let it dig across her shoulder blades.

“We’re about to discuss you,” Lee said. “You should be present.”

Marcus studied Violet too long, then sighed. He reached for the plate of eggs and slid three of them onto his plate, followed by four strips of bacon.

Lee folded her hands and hid them in her lap. “I made certain she didn’t leave the house last night.”

“You … I didn’t think.”

“You were past coherent thought. It was fine. But there are decisions to make now.”

“We can’t let her go, and we can’t keep her.”

Violet’s mouth went dry, and her underarms began to sweat. They’d told her no one would hurt her. Belinda promised.

Belinda had started back to the kitchen, but now she turned to Marcus. “And why’s it one or the other? Keeping her or letting her go?”

He poked his fork at her. “Keeping is kidnapping. Letting go is …” He shook his head and sawed an egg in half with a rush of yolk.

“That’s what I’m trying to say, son. Both choices have some problems.”

Oh, God, save me.

He grabbed a pancake from the stack, curled it in his hand, and mopped up the yolk. “Well.”

“There is no third option,” Lee said.

“Wouldn’t be kidnapping if Violet agreed to stay.”

The fork in Marcus’s hand froze halfway to his mouth. The bite of egg dripped gold back onto his plate. Lee folded her arms and cocked her head at Belinda, not curiosity but challenge.

“What?” The word blurted from Violet, and she pressed back harder against the chair. She’d been given no voice here.

“You don’t know enough to understand,” Belinda said. “Hold that thought, now. I’ve got a pan on the stove.”

In the minute she was gone, Marcus consumed his eggs and bacon with unwavering focus. Violet breathed in and out, since she’d probably get to keep doing so.

Lee ignored the food altogether. “Marcus, there’s only one option in reality.”

“I know. I have to keep her here.”

Before Lee could answer, Belinda bustled back into the room with a gallon of orange juice and three glasses, rims squeezed between her fingers.

“Lee, you eat up.” She poured a glass of juice and offered it to Violet. “Now, what was I saying? Somebody needs to explain how things are, and why—”

“She can’t be given more information,” Lee said.

“She’s a child, Lee.”

“I’m aware of that.”

She’s sitting right here in front of you. Hadn’t Lee told Violet to observe, to mold her own self, based on the truth? Maybe Violet’s intrusion on her nightmare had somehow changed her mind. Violet ducked her head to hide the heat in her face.

“She’s not responsible for the lies people told her.” Belinda poured another glass and set it in front of Lee. “You’re not giving her a chance.”

“She’s old enough to understand right and wrong.”

“That’s what I’m saying, she might could choose to do right, if we explain to her—”

Clank. Marcus stabbed an egg straight through to the plate. He pushed to his feet and paced the length of the table. “No.”

Belinda froze with the orange juice gallon in her hand. “Marcus, I’m only saying—”

“I know what you’re saying. I’m saying no.”

Violet couldn’t look up at any of them. She was pretty sure Lee’s eyes were boring straight into the top of her head. She stared at the table. Marcus’s egg was bleeding gold.

“Y’all are treating this girl like a Constabulary agent.”

“She is,” he said.

Yes. She was. Look what she’d done so far. “You took their freedom.” Exactly what she was supposed to do. She ignored the bitter taste.

“What’ll you do with her, then? Keep her here until she’s old and gray like me?”

“I don’t—”

From somewhere across the house, a lock clicked and a doorknob rattled. A door swung open. Marcus’s pacing stalled, Lee turned toward the threshold, and Belinda plopped down the juice gallon and scurried toward the sound. Her eyes shone.

“There he is,” she said.

“Where’s my Pearl, and what’s she wearing? Not much, I hope.” The booming voice lacked Belinda’s accent.

Belinda giggled like Khloe. Barely into the living room, still in sight of all her houseguests, she rushed into the arms of a paunchy, olive-skinned man who swept her feet off the floor with his embrace. Silver crept into his black hair, starting at the temples. He leaned down to kiss her, but Belinda shoved at his chest.

“Behave, Chuck. We’ve got guests.”

The man’s gaze lifted, froze, then traveled over each person around his table. It settled on Marcus. “Little early in the day for a powwow, isn’t it? And who’s this?”

“This is Violet,” Lee said.

“She’s a spy,” Marcus said.

Belinda huffed. “I’ll get the syrup.”

Chuck grabbed a chair and sat. He eyed first the food, then the clock. “Better start at the beginning.”

“The Constabulary sent her.” Marcus sat back down, and his fork prodded his remaining egg like a hunter testing if his quarry was really dead. “She texted addresses to them.”

Chuck hunched forward, and his dark eyes narrowed at Violet. “Not my address.”

“N-no,” Violet said.

“The church, then, Marcus’s church? And that porch house?”

Violet dipped her head, half a nod, half submission.

Chuck shifted to shove a thumb into his empty belt loop. “So they’re using children now. Can’t quite get my head around that one yet. Give me a minute.”

None of them understood, not really. Lee was the only one who credited Violet to make her own choices. Well, and Marcus, but he also wanted her locked in a medieval tower for the rest of her life. Violet heard her own throat clear before she realized that she had to talk. Suddenly, they all watched her.

“I’m seventeen years old, and I do have a brain.” She traced the flower design looping over her empty plate. “Maybe all Christians don’t need re-ed, but the ones who hurt people, I think it’s a good thing to teach them how to … to think, and feel for other people, and …”

Marcus’s fork impaled his egg, but he didn’t take a bite. Chuck frowned at Violet as if she’d announced an ability to breathe underwater.

“For the moment,” Lee said, “let’s indulge that theory. Some Christians require re-education in order to grow past their erroneous beliefs and treat people properly.”

Yes, exactly. Lee said it so perfectly.

“Violet, do you believe Belinda would be benefited by re-education?”

Carrying a glass pitcher of syrup in one hand and a butter dish in the other, Belinda froze three feet from the table. The butter dish trembled.

“She’s not intolerant,” Violet said, and the dish steadied.

“No, then?”

“Yeah. I mean, no.” But that didn’t prove anything. Not really. Belinda was only one person.

Lee’s chin tilted up, and the calm hardened. “Do I belong in re-education?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about Marcus?”

Let me go and I won’t turn anyone in. The words hovered in her mouth, tasting like a green apple, sour because of their truth or because of their lie. Belinda seemed to duck as she set the butter and syrup on the edge of the table. She shuffled back to the kitchen, and dishes began to clatter.

“Violet,” Lee said.

Enough of this. She wasn’t some dog learning tricks, reciting the proper response to buy her release. “He’d probably be a better person after.”

If she hadn’t ventured a glance toward him just then, she’d have missed his momentary flinch. Hurt that she saw him that way? Hardly. But fear didn’t fit him, either, despite what he’d said to Lee when he thought only she could hear. He surged to his feet and paced again.

“A better person?” Lee ran a finger around the rim of her juice glass.

“Calmer, or safer, or something.”

“All right.” Lee’s voice turned the room into an iceberg. If Violet had wanted to purchase her trust with a lie, she should have professed absolute faith in Marcus.

“She can’t leave,” Marcus said.

Chuck rocked his chair back on two legs. “What’re you saying?”

“Nobody would be safe.”

“Fair enough, but your plan is to hold her here? Are we taking prisoners now?”

Marcus paced, and Lee spooned scrambled egg onto Violet’s plate with an indifferent command. “Eat.”

“Marcus,” Chuck said. “What you’re talking about is the opposite of invisible. This girl has parents—you do, don’t you?” He pointed at Violet.

Violet forked a bite of egg, perfectly salted. She still had to force herself to swallow it. She nodded.

“Okay, so the parents report her missing, probably by tomorrow if they haven’t already.”

Actually, that might take a week. Or two.

“The regular cops start a search, it comes out that she was on some kind of Constabulary mission, next thing you know her face is all over the news and she’s presumed murdered by the Christian crazies. How’s that for under the radar?”

“You want me to let her go,” Marcus said. His feet slowed.

“It’s not a great choice, but it’s the only one.”

“Chuck, I know—missing persons, the media, the cops—I know it could happen. But if she leaves, she’ll talk.”

“I can’t keep her here.”

“Well. You’re going to.”

Wow, Marcus knew how to overstep. This wasn’t his house. Chuck and Belinda were adults—good grief, could be his parents. But Chuck didn’t bristle at the order. Didn’t seem surprised or even annoyed.

His chair thumped back onto all four legs. He looked from Marcus to Violet, then back again. “You’re really serious about this.”

“It’s this or prison. For everybody.”

“So to avoid prison, you’re going to kidnap a child.”

The pacing resumed. “We don’t have a choice.”

“This is not ‘we,’ Marcus, not for one minute. This is you. I have a choice, and I’m telling you, son, I won’t follow you if this is the road you’re taking.”

Follow him? The slope of the debate had slipped right over Violet’s head until this moment. These people had begun arguing as equals, but … they weren’t.

“If I let her go”—Marcus’s words bit the air with quiet steel—“they will lock us up.”

“And if you lock her up, how are you any different?”

Wait … lock her up? Were they talking literally, throw her into some bedroom and board up the window?

Marcus dug his knuckles into his neck and drew in a deep breath.

“Marcus is different,” Lee said, “because he isn’t threatening or mocking or brainwashing her.”

Chuck shook his head. “I know that, but it’s still holding a defenseless kid against her will.”

A long sigh lowered Lee’s shoulders, and she turned to Marcus. “He’s right.”

“He’s … what?”

“She’ll escape if she wants to, unless you confine her, and you can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Marcus. You cannot physically force your will on her like this. You’re not that kind of man.”

Her words were a cool breath over the burning shield of his anger. He shook his head, but his shoulders caved forward.

“Nothing I decide is going to be right,” he said quietly.

Belinda stepped into the room. She must have been standing behind Violet for a while now. She set another pitcher of syrup on the table. “Blueberry flavored.”

Marcus rubbed his neck, then forked his last bite of egg and shoved it into his mouth.

“What happens now?” Belinda rounded the corner of the table and sat down beside her husband. They looked like some official council, Lee and Violet a few chairs down from Belinda and Chuck, all facing Marcus’s side of the table.

Marcus sipped his coffee.

Belinda sighed and grabbed the fork from the plate of pancakes. “Someone had better eat these. I put wheat germ and blueberries in them.” She stabbed two at once and deposited them onto Violet’s plate.

“You won’t keep her here?” Marcus said.

Chuck glanced at Belinda, who ducked her head and offered Violet the syrup pitcher. As if that were some meaningful gesture, Chuck leaned back from the table and hooked a thumb in his belt loop. “No, we won’t.”

“Okay.” Marcus pushed his plate away. “I’ve got other places.”

A stare-down ensued, and Chuck lost. He sighed. “All right, son.”

Lee said nothing.

Violet’s breathing pinched as she poured syrup over the pancakes. Her fingers stuck to a congealing drip on the handle. The syrup trickled over her plate, pooled in the center, and seeped under an edge of her eggs. She used her fork to push them clear.

If she bolted, would Marcus tackle her and tie her to a chair? Would the others let him?

In the quiet, Belinda made herself a plate of pancakes and drowned them in syrup and butter. Chuck wandered to the kitchen and came back with a mug of coffee. Lee finished her eggs and took her plate to the dishwasher as if she lived there.

Violet forced down bites of pancake for maybe a whole minute before courage took over. She set down her fork.

“What about Khloe?”

“Khloe stays here.” Marcus picked up his dishes and crossed toward the kitchen.

“Who?” Chuck said.

“You can’t take me away from Khloe.”

Marcus pivoted with a glare that scalded her. “She’ll be safer.”

He assumed Khloe was a Christian. He assumed Violet would turn in even her best friend. He’s right, isn’t he? She shoved her plate, and it clattered against the pancake plate in the center of the table. Belinda jumped.

“Someone tell me what else is going on here,” Chuck said.

Violet might as well be chained to her chair. She couldn’t get up, couldn’t get out of this room, away from these people.

“A lot’s happened,” Belinda said.

“Details, woman.” He spread his hands on the place mat. “Who’s Khloe?”

“That would be me.”

Khloe stood on the cuffs of borrowed lounge pants, one foot on the dining room floor and one on living room carpet. She hugged herself, swallowed by the oversized sleep shirt. She didn’t look at anyone but Violet.

“I’m Khloe.” With a K. But those words didn’t come. Khloe took another step into the room and shivered. “Violet, did you … do something?”

Eventually, yeah, Khloe was going to learn everything. Not like this, though.

Violet pushed her chair back and approached her friend. Khloe blinked at her like someone who’d just watched her house burn down. She didn’t back away, though. Maybe she’d listen.

“Violet,” Lee said.

Violet turned. “We’re going upstairs. Marcus can wait.”

She led Khloe back up to their room, shut the door, and sank onto the bed. Before Violet could open her mouth, Khloe planted her feet apart as if bracing for a fistfight and crossed her arms.

“You spill it, Vi, all of it. Marcus was accusing you of something down there.”

Everything became inevitable, the way people described a car wreck. Why was she still pumping the brake, still turning into the skid of this friendship as if she could make it right?

“Khloe, I …” Her hands curled into the quilt.

“Come on, whatever it is, just tell me.”

“When we were at the church meeting … and I had my phone out … I wasn’t playing pinball.”

Khloe’s forehead furrowed. She crossed the bedroom and sat beside Violet. “Am I supposed to be following right now?”

“I was sending a text. ‘Fifty-six-eighty-two Apple Lane.’”

“Uh … the address? Who would you text the …?” Khloe’s mouth dropped open. Her voice returned as a squeak. “Not the con-cops. You didn’t text the con-cops.”

Violet gulped a breath and steered them both through the guardrail. “I … I did.”

They smashed through and plummeted forever, sitting side by side on Belinda’s guest bed. Then Khloe was on her feet. Shaking. Shouting.

“You did not do this. You did not try to send my father to re-ed.”

“Khloe, I did.”

“You did not.”

Violet doubled over and twisted her hands into the quilt. Her stomach hurt. “I did.”

“No, Violet, no.”

“The church raid happened because of me. Everything’s happened because of me. I wanted him to get help, I wanted all of them to get—”

“No!” Khloe closed her eyes.

“I had to do it. Austin said they—”

Khloe stormed into Violet’s space and shoved her. Another few inches back and Violet’s head would have bounced against the wall.

“Austin? You turned my dad in for Austin? You ruined my life for Austin? Were you going to turn Belinda in too, while I was right here sleeping in one of her fugitive-Christian beds?”

Violet sat back up. “Khloe—”

“Were you going to even tell me about it, or just let the con-cops show up and play stupid while they hauled me off to re-ed along with a bunch of strangers!”

Something long simmering boiled up in Violet’s chest. “Shut up. Shut up about you. This isn’t about you, this is about everyone, this is about the whole country. I was trying to help these people, including your dad, and maybe if you end up in re-ed they’ll teach you the world’s bigger than Khloe-with-a-K Hansen.”

Khloe whimpered, and her voice fell to a whisper. “You did know. That I’d go to re-ed. What was I, collateral damage?”

No. Of course not. And yes.

“My gosh, Violet. What kind of friend are you?”

Ten years of sleepovers and secrets and tears and laughter, Khloe’s I-know-you’ll-save-me gaze, a week’s worth of Violet’s clothes stashed in Khloe’s bottom dresser drawer—all of it broke in Violet’s chest, all at once.

Khloe shook her head as if to clear a daydream. “I heard a baby crying earlier, when I was getting dressed.”

“Another fugitive came last night. She had a baby.”

“I’m hungry. I’m going down to eat.”

Khloe, I helped deliver him. He’s so tiny and alive. And I don’t want you to go to re-ed, and I’m starting to feel mixed up, and I think I need help to figure things out. “Belinda makes good pancakes.”

Khloe ambled from the room. Violet shut the door after her and walked back to the bed, smoothly, like water, like Lee. She slid down to the carpet with her back against the bedpost. Her knees drew into her chest. Tears clogged her throat, not because she hurt but because she should. And didn’t.