Page 41 of Echoes

Quickly, I disassemble the razor, carefully plucking the blade out. As the showers turn off automatically, I panic, wondering where the fuck I'm supposed to hide a blade.

We're the unhingedaccording to Grey. Unpredictable, unstable, wild cards who have fought our entire lives to survive.

Already starting to regret my decision, I grab my towel, drying my body as fast as I can. I grab my change of clothes, taking a deep breath, before carefully placing the blade between my ass cheeks. It's either that or my vagina—and rightfully so, I'd rather cut my asshole instead of slicing off my clit.

Slow steps. Baby movements.

Somehow, I manage to get myself dressed, squatting down with my ass clenched tightly to shove the disassembled razor back into the bag, just in time before the guard swings open the stall door to check on me.

"Part of it fell down the drain," I say quickly, slapping my hand over the drain cover for dramatic effect. "But you can tell Mr. Whittingham that these aren't my belongings." I stand up, shoving the plastic bag into his chest.

The guard scowls at me, grabbing my elbow to pull me out of the stall. I quickly fall into line behind the other women as they head out of the bathroom, doing my best to walk normally.

Please don't fall out…

Oh, please don't fucking fall out.

I hold my breath until I'm back to my room, only exhaling when the door slams shut. Hastily, I waddle to my adjoining toilet, popping my leg onto the seat as I carefully remove the blade in some weird yoga position.

"Thank fuck," I breathe out in relief, holding the blade between my fingers.

I'm not an idiot though. I know that they will check the contents of the bag soon and notice that only the blade is missing. It likely means they will come search for it.

Shit!This means that I have contraband in my room.

That's also grounds for punishment, right?

Pacing around the room, I try to find a decent hiding place. Under the bed is too obvious—same with the desk. Swallowing it is out of the question too.

Kicking off my shoes, I use the blade to pull the inside of the sole up. I slide the blade inside, spitting on the torn section as I try to make it stick together again.

It's the best I can do, and as expected, the guards arrive a few minutes later.

I'm laying on my bed, pretending to look bored as they enter. Keeping my face blank is hard because my heart is pounding so loud and fast that I can barely breathe.

Mr. Whittingham walks into the room after the guards, looking displeased.

"Ms. White," he snarls down at me. "We're here to conduct an inspection."

"Oh?" I feign ignorance, sitting up. "Did you need me to move?"

His eyes narrow briefly on me before snapping his fingers at the guards. Immediately, the three of them spread out across the room, lifting and opening things. One of them rips the mattress off the metal frame, nearly flinging me with it as I scramble to my feet just in time.

I keep my eyes on Mr. Whittingham, fighting the urge to look at my neatly placed shoes by the desk. He watches me carefully, so I glance away, leaning against the wall.

My heart stops completely when one of the guards grabs my shoes, turning them upside down. He gives them a shake, shoving his hands inside.

Fuck.

Fuck me dead in the ground.

I pick a spot on the wall, training my eyes to stay on it. The seconds passing feel like hours, but they throw the shoes on the ground, moving onto the next item.

"There's nothing here," one of the guards tells Whittingham. "Clean."

I glance back casually to Mr. Whittingham. "Is it nearly dinner time?" I ask him.

We both know I'm not going to be eating, but maybe one of these guards are in Damon's pocket and they'll relay this to him. It's a small flare, a cry for help—but only if it lands on the right mark.

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