Page 74 of They're Watching You

“Mmhmm.” I start to giggle.

“Hey, hey, nooo. You cannot laugh like that in here.”

“Like what?”

“Like…like a girl! Likenot me!”

“I’m sorry,” I mouth, but more giggles burst out, and I slap a useless hand over them.

Remington’s expression is pinched in a mixture of frustration and near-laughter.

“Let it out,Remi,” I say, trying and failing again to sound like Annabelle as I stand, pushing my shoulders back and doing my best ballerina impersonation. “Youryoulaugh will cover mynot-youlaugh.” I try for a pirouette or whatever it’s called when you stand on your tiptoes and spin around.

It does not go well. In an attempt to stop myself from falling again, I knock a book off Remington’s desk.

“Maren,” he whisper-snaps right as, sure enough, someone from the next room pounds on the wall. “It is five in the morning.”

“I think the Gamemaster poisoned me again.” I lower my head in contrition.

“That must be it.” His lips twist back a smile. “Come here.” He leads me over to the ladder, and this time, he stands beside it until I’m nestled securely in the top bunk. “Good night, Maren.”

“Good night.” I tug his blanket up higher. “Remington?”

“Yes?”

“What do you think the finale will be?”

He hesitates at first, and the bed creaks as he lowers onto the bottom bunk. “Let’s hope it’s a challenge that relies heavily on lacrosse and football skills, so we can crush everyone.”

“That would be good,” I say, my words slowed by oncoming sleep.

“And for the record,” he says, so quiet that it’s like he’s talking to himself as darkness pushes in, overtaking my consciousness, “yournot-melaugh is the best sound I’ve ever heard in this room. Leagues above any sound Walker the Talker ever produced. Also, I loved your ballet routine. Annabelle should be worried about her spot in the spring performance.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, a smile on my lips as I drift off.

Twenty-Eight

When I wake, the headmistress’s drug and the champagne seem to have left my system. Only a trace of headache lingers. I lean over the bars to check on Remington below, but the bed is empty.

Sitting up, I scan the rest of the room. He’s gone.

Why would he leave?

My brain lists possible reasons, starting with “he went to the bathroom” and ending with “he made a deal with the Gamemaster, my life for Jane’s.” When the door clicks open, I back against the wall, ready for society minions to try to handcuff me.

But it’s Remington, who begins unbuttoning an awkwardly bulging coat. Soon, a variety of hidden sandwiches and fruits tumble onto his desk. “Morning,” he says, noticing me watching. “Or late afternoon rather.”

“Already?”

“Four fifty-six p.m. to be exact. We still have time. When I woke up, there was an invitation—addressed to both of us, by the way, just to make it clear that they knew we were together. The meeting is at midnight.”

“When I woke and you were gone,” I say, overwhelmed by a sudden need to confess my treacherous assumptions, “I thought—I guess I thought maybe you’d…”

“Been kidnapped while you slept?” He arches a brow. “It’s fine, Maren. Whatever you thought, it’s my fault for being so closed off before. And whatever you thought, it wasn’t true.” He points to the spread on the desk. “I was grabbing food from the dining hall.”

“My hero,” I say, one foot already on the rungs. Once I’m down, Remington hands me a glass of water, and my awareness of our close proximity—of the fact that Remington is showered and dressed and I’m still in yesterday’s clothes, filthy from tunnel crawling—hits me like sprinklers in winter. He moves closer, but I gulp down some water and plop into his wheeled desk chair, spinning out and away from him. “Can I have the red one?” I ask, pointing to the fruit.

“Red what?”

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