“If Brooke is compliant and keeps her head clear, they may decide she is worth keeping alive for a while.”
“And if they don’t?” I ask.
John doesn’t hesitate.
“Then they will eliminate you.”
He adjusts his sleeve as if the conversation has already ended.
“You leave in the morning,” he says. “Grant will handle the transfer.”
He looks at me one last time.
“Do not mistake this for mercy. It’s a negotiation.”
John walks out. The door closes behind him.
Mary lingers in the doorway, hands folded neatly in front of her. Whatever guilt lives on her face never reaches her eyes.
“Try to breathe, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “It’s all for the best.”
The way she says sweetheart makes my blood run cold.
Then she turns off the light, closes the door, and locks me in.
And the last family I had left chooses The Collective over me.
Chapter 3
Brooke
The house stays too quiet, every small sound carrying farther than it should. I work at the cuffs until my wrists throb, pulling, twisting, testing for anything that might give. Nothing does. The rope digs into my waist each time I shift. My legs go numb, then sting as feeling comes back. My shoulders ache from being held in place.
My thoughts continue to spiral until it lands on one thing. The thought finally settles but my mind refuses to see it properly. My father, Greg. The man who baked cookies on Sundays and drove me to softball practice. The man who told me to question everything and trust my instincts. A killer. Just like John. Just like Seth.
The connection is there whether I accept it or not.
If John is right, if violence runs through blood the way he believes it does, then this isn’t chance. It was always there. Not something I turned into. Something I started as. The thought hits hard enough that I have to force myself to breathe through it.
And my baby.
If killers make killers, if this thing is passed down instead of learned, then what does that mean for the life growing inside me? Is it already marked? Already destined to be a killer. Or is that the lie John needs to believe so he can justify everything he’s done.
I don’t know which answer terrifies me more.
Sometime deep into the night, the door opens again. Light spills in as Mary steps inside carrying a tray. A bowl of grits sits in the center, steam rising faintly from the surface, butter melting into pale swirls, salt dusted across the top. A glass of cold water rests beside it. She closes the door behind her with the same careful quiet she always uses.
“You need to eat.” Mary sets the tray down with careful hands, her voice still soft.
The smell hits me and my stomach twists hard. Hunger claws upward.
I shake my head weakly. “I don’t want to eat.”
“Stop.” She straightens, fingers tightening around the spoon. “You’re pregnant. You can’t afford to be stubborn.”
She dips the spoon into the grits and stirs once before stepping closer. She lifts it toward my mouth.
I turn my head away. A cramp seizes low in my abdomen, stealing my breath.
