Page 72 of They're Watching You

Only the long table has been replaced by a small round one set with a white tablecloth and candles. A figure steps from the shadows beneath an enormous framed portrait, and I jump. “Please,” says the male figure, whom I now recognize as one of the rotating dining hall chefs, “Have a seat. The Gamemaster has asked me to attend to you.”

“Um, I think—you know, we were just going to grab some leftovers from the kitchen.”

“The kitchen is locked to students. But I can whip up anything you like, provided the kitchen has the ingredients, of course.”

“You were right,” I whisper to Remington. “The Gamemaster is going to re-poison us.”

“Only we’re not going to sleep this time.”

“Nope. We should probably—” I pitch a thumb over my shoulder, and my stomach’s protests rumble through the empty hall.

“What about a pizza?” the chef asks. “I’ve already kneaded a batch of dough. It will be ready in minutes. In the meantime, sit down, relax.” He uncorks a bottle and begins to pour some bubbling liquid into two glasses. “Compliments of the Gamemaster.”

I glance at Remington, whose hand is stretched over his face. But I’m lost to the pizza powers that be. “The Gamemaster can’t poison us,” I say. “If we die, who will compete in the finale?” I hurry over to the table, grabbing for a glass.

Remington places a gentle hand over mine. “Maybe some water first?” he says to the chef, who nods and scurries off to the kitchen. Remington quirks his lips at me. “At least until you get some food in you?”

“I thought it was sparkling water,” I lie. He makes a good point though. I’m light-headed as it is. Our chairs have been placed across the table from each other. Remington drags one right next to mine, settling down in it. “You think they’re watching us now?” This alcove is out of view of the corner camera; still, I glance around, scrutinizing the portraits and the intricately carved molding in the dim light.

“We are the society’s source of entertainment. It would explain why the Gamemaster went to so much trouble with this setup.” He gestures at the cloth napkins and the candelabras. Breaking his own rule, he lifts a glass and takes a swig. “Enjoying yourselves?” he asks loudly, swirling the glass over his head before clanking it down onto the table. “Sick freaks.” He takes a napkin and stuffs it into the neck of his coat. “Not sparkling water, for the record.”

“Duly noted,” I say, lifting a brow at his new accessory.

“They wanted us to be fancy, didn’t they? Here, allow me.” He reaches over, lifting my napkin between two fingertips and making a show of tucking it inside my collar. I swat at him as he leans over me, his fingers resting on my skin. The playful glimmer seems to seep from his eyes. Dark and intense, they fasten on mine.

I lift my face to whisper in his ear. “Remember, they’re watching.” My wrist grazes his thigh as our cheeks brush, and suddenly, it’s hard to catch my breath.

The chef arrives with two glasses of water and a charcuterie plate, and Remington pulls back, giving my napkin one last necessary adjustment before sitting up in his chair.

We dive in before the chef manages to back away, gulping the water and stuffing crackers and cheese into our mouths. Normally I don’t care much for cured meats, but right now, I’m layering salamis and prosciuttos up and practically swallowing them down whole.

I wash it all down with a few too-fast sips of champagne, feeling the effervescent burn in my throat and eyes. I cough and Remington laughs. He dangles a cracker in front of me like I’m a feral cat in a cage. I laugh too, taking slower sips of champagne now, letting it warm me from the inside. And I push back the thoughts of Polly and Jane, who likely haven’t had a bite of real food in weeks, much less a spread like this.

The chef arrives with our tomato- and basil-topped pizza, and before I know it, I’ve scarfed down three slices. “The chef should abandon this place and open up his own pizzeria,” I say, wiping my mouth with a fancy napkin.

“You’re just hungry. You’d probably say the same thing about summer camp cafeteria pizza.”

“Summer camp?” I take another gulp of champagne. “Surely, Remington Cruz doesn’t spend his summers at camp.”

He shrugs, holding his glass by the stem and letting it tilt lazily. “Occasionally. Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not me. Summer camps mean lakes, and I don’t get along very well with large bodies of water.”

“Afraid of the lake monster, huh?”

My gaze flicks to the wall, and I lean in closer. “More like I almost drowned in a pool when I was nine, and I’ve sort of never gotten over it.”

“Oh.” Remington straightens, setting down his glass. “I’m sorry, Maren.”

I wave him off. “It’s fine. My hair got stuck in my grandparents’ pool drain, and I couldn’t get free. I passed out, and my cousin rescued me. She basically had to rip a massive chunk of my hair out, but I lived to tell the tale.” I make a silly face. “I’ve tended to steer clear of pools and oceans and even lake monsters, adorable as they may be, ever since.”

He smiles and reaches over to place his hand over mine. It’s warm, and his eyes are concerned as they linger on me. But none of it keeps me from blurting, “Why did you take the ribbon?”

Remington’s brows furrow. Slowly, his fingers slide off of mine. “What?”

“The ribbon, down in the catacombs. You said you weren’t going to play Annabelle’s game, but on our way out, you took the advantage to the finale and stuffed it in your pocket.”

He falls back in his seat, hands clutching the table’s edge. After a moment, he reaches into his jacket pocket and removes the red ribbon. He balls it up in his fist before dropping it in front of me. “This is what you’re so worried about? Here. Have it.”

---