Page 48 of Dark Rebel's Mystery

Maybe the guy with the tray was the doctor.

Whenever the group entered a cell, Kyra paused to scrub or wipe a surface. When a door opened, a guard stepped in first to secure the occupant, followed by the guy with the tray, and then the door closed with the three inside.

They seemed to be taking forever, and in the meantime, Kyra's mind raced with the possibilities. The occupant of cell twelve might be a connection to her past, making this much more than an intelligence-gathering mission.

This had just become personal.

32

KYRA

It took the man with the tray forever to get to cell number twelve, and the more time passed, the more dangerous it was getting for Kyra. Someone would notice that she hadn't cleaned anywhere else and was taking too long in this corridor, and when they questioned her, they would discover she wasn't who she claimed to be.

She was so close, though, and her need to take another look at that woman was overwhelming.

Naturally, she'd cataloged each of the other prisoners, memorizing their faces and every bit of information she'd managed to overhear, thanks to her exceptional hearing. She hadn't dared to bring a notebook with her, which would have been helpful given the state of her memory, so instead, she kept repeating the descriptions and the information in her mind and making a story out of them.

She had learned this memorization trick from a television show she had seen a while ago. Making the information a movie in her head was immensely helpful in accurately recalling the details later.

The man with the tray and the two guards were taking far too long in cell number ten, though, and she was running out of patience. Maybe she should rush over to the door of cell twelve and peek through the small window again.

She could pretend to clean that door once more. It would be foolish, and she should wait until the three men were inside so she could spend more time at the window and listen to what they were saying, but she was impatient.

Pausing at the corner near cell eight, Kyra propped the mop handle against the wall as though she were taking a small rest. The corridor was deserted except for the occasional clink of metal, the hiss of old vents, and the muffled sounds of voices coming out of cell number ten.

After a moment's listening, she gathered her nerve and eased forward with a bottle of cleaning solution in one hand and a rag in the other. She stopped by cell eleven and quickly cleaned the door before rushing to her destination.

Rising to her tiptoes, she reached for the plaque above the window with her rag and peered inside.

Her breath caught.

The bruises were gone, which was impossible. It hadn't been more than an hour, maybe even less, since she'd first seen the woman's face, and there was no way she could have healed so quickly. She still looked pale and gaunt, and she was asleep. Had she imagined the swelling of her cheek? The dark mottling? No sign of either remained.

The woman lay on her back, her head turned slightly to one side. Her face was unblemished, as though she'd never taken a blow. Now that it was clear, the resemblance seemed less uncanny.

They had the same dark hair, slender nose, and similarly shaped chins, but their similarities ended there. The woman's face was narrower, her lips were thinner, and she was more delicately built.

The sound of footsteps made Kyra stiffen.

She ducked aside, her heart hammering, and started rubbing her cleaning rag over a stain on the wall next to the door.

The guard passed her without a second glance, and as his steps receded, she chanced another look inside. The woman's eyes were open now, pale brown and glazed, gazing blankly at the ceiling.

She was still very much under the influence of drugs, and Kyra hoped they wouldn't give her any more or they might kill her.

Had the bruises never been there, and had Kyra projected her own experience on the woman because of their similar looks?

Or did the woman heal as fast as she did?

But if she had been changed in the same way Kyra had, she should also have enhanced strength and been able to break free of the chains.

Maybe she didn't know how?

A swirl of half-buried memories tugged at Kyra—banging the cuff against the wall until the lock broke, her wrists that had been scarred raw, the blood flowing in rivulets down her hands. But then the healing had happened so fast that she'd thought she was hallucinating.

The prisoner blinked, tilting her head as if hearing something or sensing a presence. Kyra ducked to avoid direct eye contact, butcuriosity won out, and she rose again, searching the woman's face for new clues.

The woman looked confused, her gaze flickering toward the door without focusing on it.

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