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“That’s correct, Your Honor. ”
Judge Lozano glances at me and beckons me with a sharp curl of his fingers. My stomach does a hard forward roll, but I manage to contain my nerves. I walk up to the bench, and Judge Lozano points me to the witness box next to him. There is no chair inside the box so I stand, facing the gallery full of spectators. My eyes skim over the faces and finally land on Bishop. He is still staring at me, his face grave. I have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking. It takes me back to those first days of our marriage, when every word he said or gesture he made was a complete mystery to me.
“You have been charged with attempted murder in the first degree. What’s your plea?” Judge Lozano asks me, voice loud, and I jerk myself back to reality.
“Guilty,” I say without hesitation.
Everyone knew my plea, but hearing it out loud, from my own mouth, sends a ripple of unease around the room. I am thankful that I will be spared having to outline my crime in detail, the way it used to be done before the war. No one is as concerned with a defendant’s rights anymore. If you say you’re guilty, they take you at your word. They must figure you’d be a fool to admit guilt and risk being put out unless you actually committed the crime.
“Given the unusual nature of this case, the president has requested that I pronounce your sentence and have it carried out immediately. ” Now the ripple has turned to outright shock. Apparently, the speed of my punishment is news to the gathered crowd. Most of them look thrilled to be witnessing such excitement. Bishop, too, seems surprised. His head whips toward his parents, and then he leans forward, hands gripping the wooden balustrade separating the gallery from the courtroom.
I try to tell him with my eyes that it’s all right. The last thing I want is for him to worry about me. I want him to forget me and move on. Be safe and happy. He doesn’t need to worry. I am prepared for what’s coming. Or as prepared as I can possibly be.
“Ivy Westfall Lattimer, you are hereby sentenced to be put out beyond the fence. Sentence effective immediately following these proceedings. ”
The courtroom erupts, even though my actual sentence can come as a shock to no one. Over the din, I hear Bishop call my name, and although I know I should not look at him, I cannot bear to leave without seeing him one last time. But when I let my gaze travel to his, I wish I had turned away. He is standing at the balustrade, his face pale and drawn, and Callie’s hand is on his upper arm, her face tipped up to his. She is whispering urgently to him. Her touch is too familiar, her face too kind. She is playing a part to get what she wants.
Something snaps inside of me, something that’s been pulled taut for days, weeks, maybe forever. I see Callie clearly now—her heart is cold; her quest for power, her need for revenge, is even stronger than my father’s. She is not going to let this stop her. To her, Bishop is not a person worthy of love or empathy. To her, he is like the dog that bit me, the one she choked on the end of his chain. Bishop is a nuisance. He is in her way. And whatever it takes, she is going to find a way to hurt him.
I charge out of the witness box and get halfway to her before the guards realize I’ve moved. One grabs me by the arm and wrenches me backward, but I don’t stop, straining and kicking against him. I’m a wild thing, feral and out of control. If I can get free, I have no doubt I can kill her with my bare hands.
I scream, a long, mournful howl that silences the rest of the room. Another guard joins the first, and they drag me toward the side door of the courtroom even as my feet drum against the floor. I scream and scream until my lungs are empty and bright dots dance before my eyes. I scream as I hear Bishop yell my name. I scream until I’m shoved through the door into a hallway and something hard and heavy hits me on the side of the head and my world fades into black.
It is dark. Inky dark. My head throbs in time with my thudding heart. Something sharp is pressed into my cheek. Even my eyelids ache, but I manage to open them. More darkness, although it’s not so black. Shot through with pale streaks of light. I roll my eyes upward. The moon. I’m outside. How did I get outside?
I tilt my head and groan as pain slides through my skull like a hot knife. I turn my head carefully to the side, lift my cheek off the rock cutting into my skin. There is something glinting in the darkness beside me, a silvery sheen. I can’t figure out what it is. It hurts too much to think. I snake a hand out and reach with trembling fingers. Cool metal, thin and smooth. It rattles against my hand. I know what it is, but my mind fights the knowledge. My fingers curl around the metal the way Bishop’s did the day we stood on the opposite side.
I am beyond the fence. And I am alone.
It’s the thought of the dead girl that finally gets me moving. I know that no one is coming. My father and Callie are not going to appear on the other side of the fence with a new plan, this one destined to save me. Bishop is not going to crash through the trees, his hands full of water, his face full of forgiveness. But still I remain against the fence, the metal pushing between my shoulder blades, my head thick and throbbing.
As the sun rises high in a cloudless blue sky, the only sound the relentless thrum of hungry grasshoppers in the high grass, my mind turns to the girl Mark Laird killed. Her body lies somewhere along the perimeter of this fence. And I know if I don’t move soon, I will end up just like her. Abandoned, forgotten. Left to rot. Because the longer I sit here, eyes glassy and gaze unfocused, the easier it becomes to stay.
I have no idea which way to go. Or even how to take the first step. When I was in the cell below the courthouse, I told myself that I could handle this eventuality. But now that it’s here, I think I overestimated my own strength. A few listless tears mingle with sweat on my face, and I lower my head to my upturned knees, even though it makes the pain in my head worse, like two knives behind my eyes, probing for a way out.
There are only two choices. Stay here and die. Or get up and see what happens next.
I don’t want to end up like the dead girl. I don’t want to give up like my own mother. I may be her daughter, but I am not her. I lift my head and hook my hand into the chain-link above my head, use it to pull myself upright. My leg muscles scream in protest after more than twelve hours on the ground, and black dots dance across my vision.
I remember Bishop saying that the river is to the east. I made sure to pay attention to which way the sun rose this morning. Water. That’s my first priority. Find water, and worry about everything else after that. The only way forward is one painful step at a time.
The going is slow, my arms and legs not quite moving in sync. I probe gingerly at the back of my head, and while my hair is tacky, there is no fresh blood flowing. I wonder how many times they hit me before they threw me out here, whether they had any qualms at all about dumping a teenage girl out into the dark, alone and unconscious. Probably not. After all, I tried to kill the president’s son.
Instantly, Bishop’s face flashes in my memory. I grit my teeth, push him from my mind. He is not mine to remember anymore. He might as well be a million miles away from me, rather than somewhere not so far beyond the fence that separates us. I have to find a way to forget him, even though just the thought of it makes it hard for me to breathe. He’s elemental to me now, as much a part of me as my skin or my aching heart. But surviving alone and beyond the fence is going to take everything I have. I can’t afford to waste a single second thinking about anything, or anyone, else.
The ground is rough and uneven, sloping slightly downward and just begging me to step wrong and twist an ankle. I give a little silent thank-you to Victoria for making sure I got a proper set of clothes before I was put out: jeans, closed-toe shoes, a tank top and sweater, even though it’s way too hot for one. At least my clothes give me a fighting chance. I doubt I’d last very long barefoot and in the pajama shorts I was wearing when they first threw me in jail.
The going would be easier if I moved away from the fence, but I’m reluctant to release my hold on it. My left hand skates across the surface as I walk, metal bumping underneath my fingers. As a child, the thought of the fence frightened me. But now it feels like a security blanket I can’t let go of. Stepping away from it means stepping into the abyss. I may wander so far afield that I can never find my way back.
I don’t have any real idea of how far away the river is from where I was put out, but I can’t imagine it’s too far. Thinking of the river reminds me of Bishop again, and I stumble over a divot in the ground. I give myself a mental shake. Not even five minutes after I promised to forget, and I’m already breaking my vow.
I try to empty my head of thought, concentrate solely on putting one foot in front of the other. Something warm and wet slithers down my neck, but I tell myself it’s sweat and not blood and refuse to allow myself to check. There’s nothing I can do about it if I am bleeding again, so it’s better not to know. Once I’m at the river, I can douse my head with water, wash away the blood that itches where it’s dried to crusty patches on my skin and tangled in my already matted hair.
From the north—the Westfall side of the fence—I hear the faint sound of voices, and I stop cold, my heart hammering its way up into my throat. I press against the fence, my fingers curling around the warm metal. It’s two children, probably forty feet in the distance, playing some kind of game among the trees. I doubt their parents know they have wandered so close to the fence.
“Hello,” I call, but my voice is rusty and weak and they don’t look up. I try again, clear my throat and yell a little louder. This time they both see me, scrambling up to their feet in unison. The older one, a girl, pushes the smaller boy behind her.
“Can you help me?” I ask. “Please. ”
