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I fumble to answer, startled, suddenly reminded that I shouldn’t be on the girls’ hall—and that if someone hears a sound, they’re going to investigate. The actual students who bunk here are all in class.
“Hello?” I say, keeping my voice low.
“Cassel?” It’s Yulikova. “Is that you?”
I get up and cross the room, lean my arm against the closet door frame. “Yeah, I’m here. Sorry.”
“The operation is moving forward. We’re going to pick you up next Wednesday, okay? I need you not to tell anyone, but it looks like you’re going to be gone for a few days. You’ll need a story. Family member in the hospital, something like that. And pack a bag.”
“A few days? When is the actual event—”
“I’m sorry. I’m not authorized to tell you that, although obviously I wish I could.”
“Can you at least tell me what the plan is?”
Yulikova laughs. “We will, Cassel. Of course. We want you to be as involved as possible. But not over the phone.”
Obviously. Of course.
The language of someone who’s trying very hard to convince me. Too hard.
“Okay,” I say. “So next week?”
“We want you to be safe, so please, just act normal. Spend time with your friends and plan out how you’re going to get away for a while without anyone noticing. Start laying the groundwork for whatever excuse you think would work best. And if you need us to come up with something—”
“No,” I say, “I’ve got it.”
They don’t trust me. She needs me, but she doesn’t trust me. Not completely. Not enough. I wonder if Jones said something to her, but I guess it doesn’t matter.
I’ve got it, but I don’t have to like it.
* * *
I make it through my afternoon classes and try not to think about the morning ones I missed. About how close I am to getting chucked out of Wallingford. About how little I care. I try not to think about Lila.
At track practice I run in circles.
* * *
As soon as I can make an excuse, I change into normal clothes and head to my car, skipping dinner. I feel oddly distant, my gloved hands turning the wheel. There is a kind of dark hope in my heart—the kind that I don’t want to examine too carefully. It’s fragile. Just looking at it straight on could crush it dead.
I drive to Lila’s apartment building. I don’t even bother trying to get into the lot with its closed gates and coded lock. I find a space a couple blocks down, hope I won’t get towed, and walk into the building.
At the desk a gray-haired man sitting in front of a bunch of monitors asks for my identification. Once I hand over my driver’s license, he buzzes the Zacharov apartment. He picks up a battered gray headset, waits a few moments, and then mispronounces my name into it.
I hear static and a voice on the other end, so distorted that I don’t recognize it. The front desk guy nods once, then pulls off the headset and hands me back my license.
“Go right up,” he says with his slight Eastern European accent.
The elevator is just as shiny and cold as I remember.
When the doors open, Zacharov is there, pacing the floor in suit pants and a half-buttoned white shirt, staring at the television.
“I’m going to rip his head off,” he yells. “With my bare hands.”
“Mr. Zacharov,” I say. My voice echoes. “Sorry—I—the doorman told me I could come up.”
He turns around. “You know what that prick has done now?”
