Page 44 of They're Watching You

“Funny, Maren. Your friends are in the catacombs. But I can’t give away every one of my secrets. So, I left my favorite location off the map.”

“What do you want from us?” Remington asks, ensuring I’m steady before stepping toward her. “How do you think this is going to end?”

“How doyouthink this is going to end?” Her gaze snaps to mine.

“I don’t know.” My head falls into my hands. “I don’t even understand why you have Polly and Jane.”

“Maybe they asked too many questions,” she says, meandering back to her chalice. “Maybe Jane and Polly are doing penance for crimes committed against the society.”

“But how come no one’s come looking for them? How could Jane’s parents believe she’s studying abroad when she’s really trapped down here?”

“Jane wants to stay alive. She tells her parents whatever I want her to tell them.”

“And Polly? You forced her to write that note, didn’t you?” Annabelle’s shrug suffices as a response.

“What about Alicia?” Remington asks. “How could the academy convince authorities—doctors even—she suffered from a peanut allergy after you poisoned her?”

A drop of red wine sits on the rim of Annabelle’s glass, and slowly, she licks it off. “I think you’ll find the society’s reach is further than you can imagine.”

“What does that mean?” She doesn’t answer, and I don’t really care. I just want my friend back. “How long do you expect us to keep playing these games? When are you going to release them?”

“Release them?” Annabelle’s brows draw together. “Is that what you think is going to happen?” She giggles, the sound sending chills up the base of my skull. “I’mnot going to release them.” She sobers suddenly. “Youare.”

Remington and I exchange a glance. “But how?”

“Keep playing. You’ll soon receive another task. Something that will narrow down all that blank space around your map.”

“No way,” Remington says. “We’re going to the cops tonight.”

“Do that, and you and your friends will end up worse off than Alicia Jones. I’d barely have to snap my fingers to make that happen.” Annabelle crosses the stretch of cell before him and heads out the door. “Now let’s announce our champions to the others. I can’t wait for you both to see what’s in store for Medi Supremes.”

“If it’s anything like Minor Supreme,” I mumble to Remington, “it’ll be blackmail and the feeling that I’m a mouse being dragged around by its tail.” We follow her through the narrow corridor, and my gaze travels back up to the fresco of the enormous eyes, watching the battle below from the clouds. As if some inoperative part of my brain has been suddenly switched on, Gloucester’s next line fromKing Learwriggles into my brain.

As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods;

they kill us for their sport.

A shudder wracks my body, and Remington removes his coat, placing it over my shoulders. I thank him and carefully skirt the creepy bone table. But the chill isn’t from the cold.

Following Annabelle, who struts with her lantern held high to light the way, you would never know this place is a tangled monstrosity. “You were right,” Remington says, his voice low. “We should’ve told someone. I don’t like waiting around, letting her have all the power. Maybe a teacher would listen.”

I think of Dr. Yamashiro and nod. Annabelle threatened the lives of our friends, but maybe Dr. Yamashiro would know what to do. As long as Annabelle doesn’t hear about it. I pull his coat tighter around me, noting the weight tugging one side lower than the other. I slip my hand inside the pocket, finding a phone.

Gavin’s accusation ricochets back. I have to erase it, once and for all.

I tug my own phone out of my jeans, and as suspected, there’s no signal. I keep checking, glancing down at the screen every few seconds. When we reach the final corridor before the antechamber, the weakest little bar appears at the top of my screen, and I call Gavin.

The phone in Remington’s coat pocket rings, startling me. Annabelle stops, glancing sharply back at us.

“Sorry,” I mutter, fumbling through the coat pocket. Beside me, Remington’s eyes widen in the dim light.

Still shaken, I grasp the phone and silence it, picturing only Montresor from “The Cask of Amontillado” with his black mask, deviously plotting down in the tomb.

Annabelle turns to keep walking. “Gavin was right,” I whisper to Remington. “You stole his phone and ditched him.”

Remington’s steps halt. “That isn’t what happened,” he says, scrambling to catch up now. “He asked me to hold his phone for extra light while he checked some inscription on the wall. But by the time I got the light turned on, he’d vanished.”

I can’t look up, because his warm brown eyes will turn my willpower to putty and my mind to mush. “Right.”

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