Page 94 of Lucky 14

A bear mask. It’s on the thigh of the huge man sitting by a window, at the head of a large group of men. They’re all laughing like they’re at a golfing retreat.

For a second, I’m frozen there. Elijah’s killer is right there, and I’m about to get food? Getting a plate of eggs like his death means nothing?

A ripping current of emotions tears at my chest. Fear and anger burn in my veins, making my knees weak.

Then, just as quickly, that new version of me whispers in my head: kill him. With that whisper comes a calming steadiness.

I want to kill him. I want to fucking kill him.

“Excuse me.” Someone passes me, cutting past me in line. It breaks me out of my haze enough to realize where I am.

My vision wobbles a bit, and I’m reminded with horrifying clarity that, as much as I may want to kill him, I’m starving to death, and I’m reminded of my mission. I need food.

So, shaking, I go up to the line and grab a to-go box. As I reach for the serving spoons, I realize just how small my hands are. How much I look like a woman, even in a mask.

How much I look like a target.

And that makes me mad.

Getting food is a blur, and as soon as I blink again, I’m out of the dining hall, going back to my closet, checking over my shoulder to make sure no one is following me. No one is. As soon as I close myself back in to what I’ve determined is a cleaning closet, I sit on an overturned bucket and eat my first meal in days. And it’s the best food I’ve ever tasted.

As I eat, I feel the energy flooding back into my body. And with that energy, an overwhelming desire to run. To get the fuck out of here. To go back to my apartment and my life. To go back to the girl who helped others so much that it numbed her own pain. The girl who sat at home and ate ice cream and scrolled on her phone until the late night hours.

But as I think about it, a terrifying thought fills my head.

Will I be safe? Will the people from the island hunt me down even at home?

I stare at the line of light coming from under the door.

Surely not?

Even as I think it, I know it’s not true. They absolutely will.

Will I lose my friends if I’m not safe? Will anyone be willing to talk to the person who has to…what will I have to do? Live in hiding? Change apartments? Change names?

Fuck!

Overwhelming emotions grip me, and I drop my head into my hands, gripping my hair at the roots and pulling. It’s not enough to yank me out of the spiral. So I drop my hand to the spot on my leg where I got bit and a burst of sore pain shoots up my leg. I groan, leaning into it harder.

The wound is better. A lot better. Because Oakley helped me.

Oakley.

What if he wasn’t lying? What if he’s also a victim here? Bound and starving, also doomed to never be the same?

I have to help him.

As soon as I think that, I shoot it down. I can’t worry about someone else. Worrying about another human on this island is a suicide mission. Worrying about Oakley makes me like Seven. It’ll get me killed.

I’ll leave without him.

As I think that, a sickening feeling grips my stomach, and the old version of me screams in my head. You’ll just leave someone who’s in danger? Your job is to help the people who need it most!

“No,” I growl. My ‘job’ is to survive. Whatever the cost.

As that familiar calmness drops over me, I feel the old version of me wrestling in my head. You’re no better than them.

That thought fills me with such a gross feeling, I shift.