We’d caught the male radio host mid-sentence. “—we’ve just received the following statement made by representatives of the Children’s League—”
I looked down at my boots, hands on my hips. Senator Cruz and Rosa came rushing in from the tunnel, Nico right behind them. The woman’s face was pale as she opened her mouth to call out to us. The grave voice coming through the speaker prompted her news.
“‘Early yesterday morning we carried out an assault on one of Gray’s rehabilitation camps located in Oasis, Nevada. We have taken the victims of his cruelty, the children interned there, and will release them only following the president’s immediate resignation. Should these demands not be met, we will strike our next target.’ Powerful words. If you’re just tuning in, we have a breaking news update about the images and video released this morning by several noted papers...”
“They can’t do this!” Zach shouted over the chatter buzzing around us. “They had nothing to do with it! They’re making us look like terrorists—”
“Is this real?” Senator Cruz asked Cole. “Would they claim responsibility for it? Or is Gray trying to pin it on them to justify another attack on them?”
“I think they’re claiming credit,” I said feeling a need to inject a calm voice into the panicking fray. “Gray doesn’t need another excuse to attack them, and he’s been scrambling to float the theory that everything was doctored. I guess it doesn’t matter, though. The League has the target on their backs now, not us.”
Cole managed to wrangle his smug look—or at least dampen it somewhat. “Well, y’all have succeeded in putting another undeserved feather in their cap. But Ruby’s right. This is a good thing for us.”
The anchor continued, undaunted. “—fifteen Psi Special Forces officers sustained mild injuries and were treated on-site. All declined to comment on the treatment of the children and the rehabilitation camp when questioned before the arrival of ranking military officials. As of yet there has been no response from President Gray, and Washington remains silent.”
The unspoken words trickled through my mind. But not for long.
Lillian was not only awake when we unlocked the door and came in, she was pacing the length of the room in the dark. She’d left all of the lights off, save for the one at her desk. Compared to earlier, she looked a little more presentable. Someone, likely Cole, had brought her wipes to clean off her face, a hairbrush, and a clean set of sweats. I’d seen her in press clippings wearing the costume of a First Lady—suits, perfectly coiffed hair, pearls—and I’d seen her in Clancy’s memory as a scientist, crisp and clinical in her white lab coat. Here, dressed like this, she could have been anyone. And that made it easier to approach her—easier to do what I had to.
“Hi, Dr. Gray,” I said. “Do you remember me and Chu—Charles?”
Vida and Cole had both wanted to watch, but I’d been worried about overwhelming Dr. Gray with too many people around her. I needed her calm, or at least calmer than she had been while dealing with me before.
The woman mumbled something to herself as she continued that careful stride back and forth, back and forth, not breaking pace as she glanced over at her bed and the papers strewn over it. Suddenly, she stopped and pointed at them with urgency, her mouth struggling around each sound she was trying to make. Her entire body shook with her frustration as she pressed a hand against her throat, rubbing it.
In that moment I understood. Clancy hadn’t just wanted to silence her from being able to tell others about the cure. He wanted to punish her, in the exact way he knew would hurt her the worst. He’d taken her brilliant mind and trapped her inside of it.
“That’s right, we want to talk about the research you did.”
“Chhaaaa—” She swallowed and tried again, looking as humiliated as I’d ever seen a person. I had to fight the urge to take her hand when she raised it toward us. “Chaaaart.”
“Right, the charts.” I carefully took her shoulders and guided her toward the bed. I don’t know if she remembered what had happened the last time I was in here with her, but she didn’t struggle until I tried to force her to sit.
“Ruby,” Chubs said. “Are you ready?”
Her shoulders bunched up, the muscles tightening beneath my hand. She was already preparing herself. She knew what I was.
Diving into her mind the second time was no less painful than the first. Dr. Gray turned her memories into a roaring river I couldn’t cross—a stream of landscapes, homes, roads, children’s toys, textbooks, flowers, silverware—anything and everything she could think of to protect the important memories.
But we were connected. That was all that mattered.
“Ruby.” Chubs was standing behind me, I knew that, but it sounded like he was talking to me from outside in the hall. “Ruby, what’s...er...your favorite color?”
“My favorite color,” I repeated, letting the word take shape in my mind, “is green.”
The shift came midway through the word. One moment I was being dragged between scenes lasting no longer than a fraction of a second. The next, it felt as if I’d been thrown against a wall of glass shards. I recoiled, physically and mentally.
“Tell me what your middle name is,” Chubs said.
“It’s...” The words brought me up closer to the pain, the sharpness of it. This part of her mind was so dark, so unbearably dark. It must have been painful for her every time she tried to speak, to use this part of her mind. He wanted her to hurt. Hurt.