“In here!” Acacia beckons me into the morgue. “Quickly!”
This is where he keeps the bodies of subjects who died in his experiments before throwing them into the furnace, if their organs can’t be farmed. I shiver, suddenly grateful that drugs are suppressing my emotions.
There are nine compartments in the mortuary cabinet, and I wonder how many are empty…
Acacia wrenches a lever to open one and pulls out a steel rack.
He points at it, and says, “Dump the package here.”
I place her down with a thud, and Acacia quickly stows her away. As soon as she’s hidden behind the silver panel, he inhales deeply. His chest puffs out dramatically while he regains his composure. When he exhales again, any signs of frantic panic are replaced by his usual impassive, stony expression.
“Twenty-Five.” He narrows his eyes. “If you speak a word of what happened tonight to anyone outside of these walls, I’ll make sure the world knows what you really are. A killer.”
I’m a killer.
I’m a killer.
I’m a killer.
He puts his hands on either side of my head. “Say it.”
“I’m a killer,” I say, burning the message into my brain like a brand.
“Again!”
“I’m a killer,” I repeat.
“Again!”
“I’m. A. Killer.”
CHAPTER
FORTY
SARAH
Apart from Mom’s car,the driveway’s empty. That’s a good sign. This is the first time Erin’s broken Dad’s rules, so paranoia is to be expected. Still, I gingerly push the door open, psyching myself up for what I might face on the other side. Was she right about Dad returning from his business trip early? If he confronted her, does he know that we switched places? Will he be waiting to interrogate me? Instead of facing the firing squad, the house is quiet. Too quiet. Somehow, that makes me more nervous.
I kick off my boots. My feet ache after hiking halfway down the mountain to meet a cab because the driver was too superstitious to venture up the highway to hell. On the drive, I called Erin multiple times, but it went straight to voicemail.
“Erin?” I shout. “Erin? Are you home?”
Someone flicks the hallway light on.
“What is it, honey?” Mom calls. She hovers at the top of the stairs in a robe with her hair wrapped around giant rollers. “Do you know what time it is? It’s too late to be shouting.”
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
She yawns. “He’s at a conference, remember? Go to bed, Sarah. It’s late.”
I bound up the stairs, taking two at a time. I push past her and race to Erin’s room. Her bed hasn’t been slept in. The curtains are open. An unfinished essay lies on an impeccably tidy desk alongside neatly folded laundry waiting to be put away.
I call Erin again.
Nothing.
Where is she?
