Page 59 of Uncontrolled

My skin crawls. The sharp tang of stomach acid fills my mouth as my gut roils uneasily. I toss what’s left of the snow cone toward the nearest garbage can, hear the slushy sound of it slamming against the metal.

When I come back to them, Nico’s watching me too close. “We wanted to offer you the chance to help us, since you were the one who gave us the push.”

I can’t gamble with CJ’s life. I have to come clean to Allie, tell her everything. Me proving myself to the other resurrectionists doesn’t matter anymore.

This is my fault. The realization crashes through me. Without my push, they would have left the kid alone. I made this happen.

“Sounds good,” I manage a couple seconds later. I yank my phone from my pocket and fake a response to a non-existent text message. “Hey, listen. It’s Allie. Something came up. Sorry.”

The scent of dirt fills my nostrils, impossible in the crowds, the baking asphalt wavering in the heat. Part of me is stuck in that cellar, Jamison alive and whispering in my ear. You’re just like me.

My entire body erupts in goosebumps. “Keep me in the loop,” I say as I stumble backward. “I gotta go.” My quick steps speed into a jog as I shove past a middle-aged couple, nudging a stroller with my knee, begging apologies in my wake.

I’m already yards away, ducking through the crowd when Nico calls to me. “Ploy! Wait!”

I don’t stop. Ploy died in his grave beside the barn.

“Ploy!” Keeley yells before Nico’s attempt has faded.

Ploy’s dead, I think.

Allie

Talia texted me a couple minutes ago, so I’m not surprised at her knock. I undo the locks, the fastened chain, and then step aside while she opens the door.

“Hey,” I say, trying to get a read on her. She didn’t stick around at the gym two days ago while I worked with CJ, so we didn’t patch up after.

She closes the door before she leans against it, arms full. She’s carrying a thick folder and a notebook that looks suspiciously like my mother’s, which means she’s going to ask me to officially take the reins again. It won’t be the first time she’s asked, but I’m ready.

I head for the kitchen, my bare feet pattering across the floor.

“I called the other leaders,” I say to ease us into the conversation and save her the anxiety. “Tennisen’s a peach.”

Opening the refrigerator, I snag a Coke for myself and wait for a comment that doesn’t come.

I change tactics. “Tossed me into the deep end with that job, no? You here for the money?” I ask, though technically I’m the one who’s supposed to be dividing up the payments brought in by resurrections.

Silence.

After my talk with Christopher, we’d showered and decompressed. I should have called Talia to check in following the resurrection. She might have taken it as a slight, but now that I consider it, it’s strange that she never reached out either.

I set the Coke on the counter and open the drawer, blindly scouring the depths for the rolled twenties. I already took my cut. I tuck the remaining money into my pocket, grab the can, and lean around the wall to glimpse into the living room. “My first official back-in-the-game resurrection ended up being a pretty wild story,” I say.

Talia hasn’t moved from her spot near the door. She’s staring into the shadows of the bathroom, the bedroom.

I watch her, perplexed. “What’s wrong?”

“Is he here?” she asks abruptly. “Is he hiding?” She glowers into the empty bedroom. “I need to know if he beat me here.”

“Hiding? From you?” I almost laugh and then hesitate. “What do you mean, beat you here?”

“Allie, answer,” she prompts. “Don’t lie. Is Ploy here?”

Her tone brings the truth from me. “No. He’s downtown. Some of his friends from the Boxcar Camp meet him there. They scam the tourists out of change.” I hold up the Coke. “Spoils of his criminal behavior. Want one or are you morally against it?”

The sarcasm in my smile is forced. I pop the tab on the Coke and take a long drink before I cross to her, unnerved by her lack of reaction.

“You swear he’s not here?” she says.

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