Page 35 of Cruel Hearts

A man wearing bright blue scrubs yells at me. “You got her?”

I nod.

I hope this is Denton’s doing and not a real bomb threat. Had we planned better, this would have been the perfect time to steal Zarah away from all this mess, but I don’t know if sheneedsto be here. There’s only one way to find out.

My fingers shaking, I key in the numbers I know. Praying I have unlimited attempts, I start at zero and try every number to eight.

“Fuck,” I mutter. I have one number left.

One. One. One. Nine.

The light blinks from red to green and the lock clicks open. I don’t waste another second, and cracking the door just enough to slip through, I step inside.

The door bumps shut behind me, and the noise disappears.

Zarah’s sitting in a wheelchair in the middle of a sterile space decorated to look like an elegant sitting room. It almost works.

Two loveseats are grouped together, a coffee table between them, creating what’s supposed to be an inviting conversational area. Decorative rugs cover a shining hardwood floor, andbeautiful paintings hang on cream-colored walls. Through a doorless archway I see large windows that look over the grounds, a chest of drawers, and a queen bed, and beyond that, a bathroom. A vanity, toilet, and shower stall are wedged next to a bathtub the size of my old bathroom.

My friend stares blankly into space, her hands clenched into fists on top of a nubby white blanket laying across her lap. Her skin is soft and smooth and her hair is healthy, but her eyes lack sparkle. They lack life.

I set the stolen clipboard on the lip of a windowsill and drag a chair over to sit in front of her.

“Zarah,” I say urgently.

Something flickers in her deep brown eyes, and it gives me hope. Her hair isn’t as long as it used to be, the ends resting on the tops of her shoulders. Her eyebrows are shaped into delicate arches, and lip gloss glistens on her lips. Someone dressed her in stylish pajamas. She looks like the socialite she is, planning to stay home for the day.

I hold her hands and pry her fingers open. “Zarah, sweetheart. It’s me, Stella. Do you remember me?”

There’s a little something in her eyes now.

Awareness.

Her hands squeeze mine. “Stella,” she says, her voice soft, raspy, like she doesn’t speak often.

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.” I talk to her like we have a conversation every day. “Went a little crazy when Ash took me away, huh?” I force a smile.

Panic shoots across her face at the mention of Ash’s name. He still scares her. If he visits her all the time, God knows what he says to keep her quiet.

“Zarah, what I’m going to say is very important. Do you understand me?”

Sweat trickles down my back. Any minute someone is going to check this room.

She squeezes my hands. That’s a good sign.

“You have to listen to me now. I escaped Ash’s building. I got out.Do you see me?”

She nods.

“Do you understand I’m not a dream?”

Her eyes blank out.

I hold her chin in my hand. “Look at me, Zarah. Focus.”

Her gaze connects with mine.

“Good. I’m here, and I’m okay. Ash didn’t hurt me. I’m okay, but you aren’t. Sweetheart, you have to fight. You have to get out of here.”

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