Page 126 of Warrior

“Tem said I needed a public computer.”

He makes a face. “She’s careful.”

“We should be, too,” I point out. “We don’t know what kind of tech access Graves has.”

“Kade—”

“We can’t rely on him to protect us,” I argue. “Why didn’t he warn us? Why didn’t he say anything when they set up the blockade on theonlyroad out of town?”

He blows out a breath. Then, “Fine.”

“Fine,” I repeat.

“What’s in the boxes?” Vittoria suddenly asks. She brushes past her husband and easily locates the liquor cabinet. We watch her crack open a bottle of vodka and pour it into four glasses. “Reese?”

I wince.

“It’s something bad,” Saint guesses. “How bad could dusty old boxes be?”

“Bad,” I say under my breath. “Real fucking bad.”

I gulp down the vodka Vittoria hands me. She, Antonio, and Saint follow suit.

Then… well, the only thing left to do is show them the evidence from Terror.

34ARTEMIS

I experiencefive days of agony. I sweat through who knows how many sets of sheets, and patient hands maneuver me out of the way to periodically change them and my clothes. I don’t really register who’s in the room with me, the pain is so great. There’s a bucket for me to throw up into, and a bathroom attached that I’ve unfortunately rushed to more than once.

That bone-deep ache only grew worse the longer I went without the drug.

If I could split open my skin and pull out my intestines, I think it might hurt less.

And the worst part is that I haven’t been able to sleep more than a few hours. I roll and thrash in bed, I press my fingers to my throat to make sure my heart still beats. I cry.

Every so often, my muscles cramp and refuse to loosen.

On the sixth morning, a little of the fog has cleared. I’m able to thank the woman who comes in with a broth for me to sip.

And by the eighth, I’m able to shower. I groan when I wash my hair, and again when I’m able to brush out the tangles. The bristles against my scalp is heavenly.

Once clean, I put on light-gray sweatpants and a plain white, long-sleeved t-shirt. White socks. Slip-on gray shoes. Veryfashion-forward. The woman knocks, returning after a moment of privacy, and motions for me to join her.

Her name is Mary Catherine. I focus on the pale-yellow and green tiles that break up the monotonous cream ones, while she chatters about nothing important.

Just filling the silence, I think.

“You’ll be moving to our main house after assessment,” she says.

I straighten a bit. “When is that?”

“Now.”

Oops.

She opens a door and motions for me to enter ahead of her. I tuck my hair behind my ears and creep inside. It’s… well, shoot. It’s a therapist’s office, clear as day.

There’s the comfortable-but-professional chair. There’s the couch.

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