It’s not small, if anything it’s a mini house that’s rustic. I bet it houses someone or something.
Must be important.
If I could retire, run away forever, be a part of my own world, this place would be my solace. It’s away from humanity, peaceful, where my only worry is whatever is in that lake and forest around me. While claustrophobia overwhelms me on my best days, being in water doesn’t scare me whatsoever. Swimming sounded beautiful. It may only be January, but where we are, it’s warm, crisp, like summer in the mountains.
Finally making it around the back of the building, I scan once more. I’m unused to breaking into places quietly. Usually, a rock or something else of equal force would do, but with my luck, Mortem has an alarm system.
Shaking my head with doubt, I crouch, pondering my best course of action. The feel of my phone vibrating in my pocket has me wavering. Only two people have this number. Bridger and Noah. Since Noah told me not to call her back, I’m sure it’s him. He can’t find me out here, not before I’ve discovered whatever hides within.
Pulling it out, my thumb swipes over the unlock button. With one swipe, I see the notification and am surprised to see it’s Noah. Would she really text, though? After what she told me?
Where are you?
My heart hammers inside.
Noah wouldn’t randomly ask this, but instead of saying that, I respond.
We already discussed, did you forget? Hoping my text doesn’t put her in more danger, my chest aches with anxiety. As the dots appear and disappear, my mood sours, knowing it isn’t her. When a text comes through, it only further confirms my fears.
You’re totally right! My bad.
For one, totally isn’t a normal word for her. For two, I never told her where I was, not wanting to put us both at more risk. Whoever this is on the other end isn’t her.
The thought of her at risk makes my chest ache, the only other times I’ve experienced that is with Cass and Solomon. Is she the girl from my memory? My sister? Is that who she is to me?
The connection between us is undeniable. Our bond was instant. We didn’t have to force it, we just clicked naturally. Kind of like how I thought Mel and I did… my heart pains at her memory.
“Did you really not care about Bridger?” I ask her. We’re sitting in one of the eating areas. She’s hanging out with several of the other kids here.
Unlike me, she’s been super chatty with the rest of the students, while I’ve been distant. I don’t know them and I have no intention of getting to know them.
“No,” she answers, staring at me with disappointment. “He was a means to an end. Just like any man in this godforsaken Vestige.”
How did this happen? How did we go from practically living together to this odd vehemence? It’s like it was all an act.
“So, now you’re into Jordan?”
“He’s really hot.” She shrugs as if it’s not demeaning in any way. “And if he fucks half as good as everyone talks about, I’m down.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss, walking away from her. She can’t have him. None of them. They may all be at odds, but they’re still all mine.
Mel isn’t who I thought, but there’s no way in knowing who she is or how involved she’s ingrained herself. The way she attached to Bridger immediately, the fact that she tried doing the same to Jordan, and her weird actions since Yang died bother me so much.
Who is she? Is she really the twins’ sister? Are they more involved? Like Midas and Elijah, do they want me gone? Did they ever have feelings or were they infatuated fallacies I’d etched into my heart, wanting affections so fucking desperately? Was the whole point of them being nice to me in Tennessee to get closer to the guys? Was their plan to fuck with me?
If so, it’s working. I’m questioning everything.
A sense of dread decides to use me as a mule, weighing me down, but the fact of the matter resides past these windows and doors. There’s a truth here, I can feel it. Whether they want me to see it or not, I’ll be finding out. Maybe it’s the missing files.
Where are those?
Did Mel take them and lie?
Walking around the place, I quietly wiggle the doorknobs and when they don’t budge, I nudge the windows, hoping one is unlocked. By the time I’m behind the cabin and have checked most opportunities to break in, a bottom window squeaks.
Sweat lines my head as adrenaline rushes through me. Was that loud? Did everyone hear? For some reason, when you’re trying to sneak out—or in this case, sneak in—noises seem to echo and carry, marking your misdeeds like a fucking lighthouse, guiding eyes your way.
Taking a deep inhale, I press my palm flat against the glass while attempting to wedge my fingers through the tiny crack. Soon realizing it’s far too small, I push right with my flattened hands, hearing one more loud shrill. Fuck, at this rate, I’ll be caught.
When no one comes running and the window leaves enough room for my fingers, I pull right, hoping the force used will cut the noises to one big sound rather than a cacophony of ruckuses. Once it’s open enough, I use all my upper body strength to climb in. It’s a smaller opening two feet tall by, like, four feet. It’s going to be a tight squeeze.
My body’s halfway through when my phone starts vibrating loudly in my pocket. The sound literally echoes against the window pane while I’m forcing myself into it. Sweat becomes my best friend as my heart reacquaints itself with the equivalent to a cardio workout.
Sliding my upper body the rest of the way in, I realize I’m in some type of abandoned room. It’s super dark in here, but light enough to see it’s empty. There aren’t any furnishings to spot in the part of the house I’m in. The fall isn’t much, if only I’d have been smart enough to use my legs first, rather than my upper body.
My body aches as I finagle my way out. Once I do, I go back through with my feet first, praying no one has heard this farce of a job. I finally get in and jump, landing weird and falling onto the carpet. No noise other than my squeak ransacks the air, and I hold in the grumble of pain, knowing my ankle really fucking hates me.
Standing, I place little weight on my right side, hoping it’ll be nothing other than a rolled ankle. The ache is small enough that I limp a little as I go to the door across the room. I hear zero sounds. At least none my ears pick up. When I turn the knob to the door, my heart completely halts in my chest, and somehow, I think I die.
Am I having a mental breakdown?
Am I dead?
Did I somehow die through that window and am now in a hellish heaven?
What the fuck?
“Fuck,” he hisses, his eyes narrowed, almost as harrowing as he appears. Cass stands six feet away. His hair is longer like that night I cut my wrists. It’s shaggy and pale, almost washed of all life. His expression is a mix between glee and worry. It’s cumbersome to the fact that he’s dead.