Page 37 of Uncontrolled

With Quinn, I played things rough, bullying him before the illusion of control had him believing he had me in a corner until I blew it a couple seconds ago. With these five, I’m uncertain what will work. I don’t want to piss anyone off. I might burn bridges I don’t have time to mend if Allie’s under threat from them. Swallowing hard, I nod once in hello. No one returns my greeting. Instead, they stare, doe-eyed, and it only makes me feel more like a predator on display.

The girl in the center has a flare of unnaturally red hair to the middle of her back. She opens her mouth, then closes it before her focus jumps to Quinn. “You got him out of there,” she says.

Quinn’s grin broadens. “I got him,” he says, leaning awkwardly over the desk before raising his fist to bump against hers.

She indulges him and then swings my direction again. The once over she gives me is invasive. She knocks an elbow against the guy standing beside her.

“Still not convinced,” he says in answer to a question she never voiced. They exchange a series of nods and nudges without a word. He’s a big dude, but his bulk is too proportioned, which means he’s a gym rat. I’m betting he’s awkward in a fight, untested. The others in the group murmur to each other.

Red closes the laptop, drawing my attention. “Jamison called you Ploy,” she says, her voice careful. “Is that what you prefer?”

“Ploy works for now,” I say. I’m not giving her my name. If she’s testing how willing I am to give up my secrets, she’ll figure I’m holding my cards close to my chest. The “for now” opens up the possibility of future trust.

“I’m Nico,” she says. Her flame of hair spills down her back as she gestures at the guy she had the exchange with. “This is my brother, East. Twins,” she says almost apologetically.

It’s not where my head went with the two of them. “Nice,” I say, and then feel stupid.

Nico gives me a nod, like she’s considering me in a new light. Part of me wonders if she expects I’m excited she’s apparently single.

I shift my attention to the tiny girl on Nico’s left.

Raising a hand, she offers a shy wave. “Keeley,” she chokes out.

She can’t be over thirteen. Her haircut isn’t helping, mousey brown strands lobbed into a first-day-of-school bob, barely long enough to tuck behind her ears.

“Hey,” I say, softening. It’s strategy to act hard to the others, but I can’t bring myself to intimidate a kid on purpose.

The last girl isn’t shy. It’s obvious by the glower, and sneer of her lip, we’re not about to be friends. She’s got “rebellious phase” written all over her from her coal-dark hair dye to the tattoo across her collarbone hidden beneath that hair. Her elastic top is strapless to show off the ink, but I can’t decipher the design aside from a set of shaded gravestones that roll when she flexes her crossed arms tighter.

“And you?” I ask.

“I’m Zen,” she says, and at first I assume she’s trying to make a joke, like she’s just a peaceful ball of light despite the hostility radiating in my general direction.

Before I can make a comment, Nico pats her lovingly on the crown of her head. “Be nice, Zen,” she says before her admiring gaze drags over me again. “We don’t want to scare him off.”

As the entire group of them shifts their attention to her, whatever doubt I might have had Nico is in charge dwindles. Her brother, East, appears to be second in command. Either Quinn or the youngest girl, Keeley, is at the bottom of the list. Wherever Zen falls, she’s clawing her way topside and from the glare she gives Nico, she’ll tear her apart on her rise.

“So, Ploy,” Nico says. “Quinn told you enough to convince you to meet us. Where are we at in this conversation?”

Pinned onto the wood of the wall is a splay of pictures and printed notes. It reminds me of what I saw at Talia’s place. For every bit of scribbled frenetic energy in Talia’s, this counters with methodical neatness, penned bullet point lists. The papers even have decorative borders and smiley stickers.

“You guys have been doing your homework,” I say, as if I’m excited to join whatever they’ve got going. The pictures are sparse, but I see Allie and Talia, and Sarah, Allie’s aunt. The others I don’t recognize. “Jamison said you all were observing the resurrectionists,” I say. “Lot of stuff here.”

For a moment, I wait to see if anyone jumps in with more information.

As I move around the edge of the desk for a closer peek at the fact sheets, the rest of the crew matches my movements, retreating as if I’m contagious. Part of me thrills. If Jamison weaponized me to these people, I won’t cast off a reputation I can use to my advantage. Then I catch the way Keeley winces as I reach toward Allie’s picture, and I’m not so sure I want to be the villain. The kid’s been through something.

“You the one who did this?” I guess, pointing to the display and dead giveaway of stickers. I’m rewarded with an enormous smile.

She flicks her fingers behind her ears, re-tucking the hair there. “Green border means we’re positive they’re a resurrectionist. Yellow, decent proof. Red, could go either way.”

Allie’s picture is a couple years old, framed in shiny green stars. The oversized sweatshirt she’s wearing envelopes her, her haunted expression peeking out from under the hood. Even though the shot’s not a closeup, obvious dark circles smudge her undereye as she stares at something blurred by distance. In the picture, she must be about fifteen, which means it was snapped right after her parents died.

Talia’s angry words at her apartment ricochet through my head. You’ve heard the stories, Ploy, but I was there.

Transferring my attention from the photo of Allie, I point to the sheet beside Talia. It lists random stats about her, her address, info on how she lives with her parents. Her name is spelled wrong. “No ‘h,’” I tell Keeley. “It’s Talia, not Thalia.”

“We wondered about that,” she says. She opens a desk drawer and snags a pen to correct the mistake before she considers me through pale lashes. “Thanks.”

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