“What are you going to do?” he asks me.
“I need to find out what they’re looking for,” I reply.
Aunt Connie scoffs. “You?”
I could tell her that I’ve already dealt with two of Vale’s crew, but that would sound like a childish brag or a lie. The truth is, I’ve been surviving on a combination of luck, good timing, and scrappy skill.
“I’ll do what I can to stop them,” I say evenly. “But first, I’m going to clean up a little.”
The bathroom is murky with shadow; only a sliver of window over the toilet lets in any light. I see linoleum tiles, a faded shag bath rug, a toothbrush holder shaped like a wave, and the fraying towels with daisy embroidery at the edges. I can’t believe she still has these. My hand rises without my brain telling it to, and my fingers stroke the edge of the towel.
I slip my visor from my face and set it on the counter. Blood flecks my nostrils and I can see the bruises beginning to form beneath my eyes.
“Hey.” Eames stands in the doorway. “You all right?”
“Just cleaning up.” I pick up a white washcloth and turn on the water. Thankfully, the building’s generators still keep the water running, even if it isn’t hot. Once the cloth is soaked through, I dab the crusted blood away from my nose and mouth. “What is it?”
He steps inside, pulling the door shut behind him. He sets a bag of frozen peas on the counter. “I thought youmight need some help. And if it were me… I wouldn’t want everyone knowing I needed help.”
I look at him sharply. It’s not that I expect the worst in people, but in my experience, acts of kindness are few and far between. “Thanks.” I pick up the bag, wrap it in the damp washcloth, and gently press it against my nose. It hurts—a flare of agony like fire—but then the discomfort ebbs away. I sit on the toilet, keeping the bag firmly in place. Sitting is a bliss all its own. I want to close my eyes and let the quiet have me.
But I can’t let my guard down. I open my eyes and look at Eames.
He is studying me. “So that’s what you look like.”
I gesture at myself—from the bag of peas pressed to my face to the half-pink hair to the gravel dust on my knees. “Hot, I know.”
That gets me a snort. “You’re a better sight than any of those terrorists.”
“That’s a low bar.” My mouth tastes like old pennies. “How’s Piper doing?”
“She’s scared,” he admits. “But she’s strong. Stronger than I ever was at that age.”
“And your aunt?”
He gives a little half shrug. “I’m glad she’s all right.” He exhales. “We just moved in with her a few weeks ago. I—I don’t really know her. But she’s nice, and she risked her life to come looking for us.”
I wonder what kind of circumstances led Eames and Piper to live with their aunt they barely know, rather than a parent. Probably nothing good.
I’m not the only one with a tangled, painful past. Perhaps that’s why Eames understood my need to retreat to see to my own wounds. Those of us who’ve had to rely on ourselves tend to isolate in moments of danger.
“I never thanked you,” says Eames abruptly. “For helping us.”
I wave off his thanks with my free hand. “I thought it was implied.”
He looks irritated with himself. “I threatened you with a kitchen knife.”
“The knife was dull,” I say, “and most of my friends have threatened me with bodily harm at one point or another.”
The corners of his mouth turn up. “Is that what we are?”
I pull the damp washcloth away from my nose. “I mean, I trust you more than most of the people I’ve met in the last hour.”
“Low bar.” I can feel the weight of his gaze, as though he’s trying to decipher a half-remembered language. “Who are you?” he says quietly. “Really?”
I swallow again.
The best lies are told with one’s body, not words. Smiling at someone to put them at ease. Walking briskly into a busy building so no one questions that you belong. Putting your right hand on someone’s shoulder so they won’t notice your left slipping into their pocket.
