Page 50 of Hunted to Be Mine
He swept the street once more. “It smelled like pine disinfectant. And wool. Floors creaked in certain spots. I stepped over them.” His tone went clinical. “A painting of a saint in the entrance hall. Faded. One corner had water damage.”
I nodded and shifted into work mode without the room, the desk, or the safety of procedure. “What about emotional texture? When you see those kids, what lands in your body?”
“Nothing.” His face stayed still. “That’s what bothers me. If I’d killed them, shouldn’t I feel something?”
“Not always. Compartmentalization is common.”
An elderly woman passed with a small terrier. A polite nod. Then we were alone again.
“The memory feels observed,” he said once she was gone. “Like I’m watching through glass. Not participating.”
His hand brushed mine. Just a tap. Then it dropped. Not romantic. A grounding wire. I had started to expect these small touches, the way he anchored himself without losing awareness.
Buildings grew more worn as we walked. Concrete blocks from another era gave way to older structures with peeling paint and cracked cornices. He didn’t check the guide this time. He nodded at a cross street.
“Left at the next corner.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
We turned onto a narrow road that curved and dead-ended. The place was empty. At the end sat a stone building behind rusted iron gates, or what was left of it. The right wing stood. The center and left were black, open to the sky where a roof should be.
I watched him take it in. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed and his breathing settled into a slow, even rhythm.
“St. Elisabeth’s,” he said.
We moved to the gates. A weathered notice flapped there. Czech text faded, with an English translation beneath: CLOSED DUE TO ELECTRICAL FIRE. NO TRESPASSING. DANGER.
“Convenient timing,” he said, flat.
I leaned in and checked the date. “Almost two years ago. Before your memories started coming back.”
“Then Oblivion didn’t torch it because of what I remembered.”
“Are you certain this is the place?” I stared at the burned shell.
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze traveled the remaining structure and stopped at the blue frames on the intact wing.
“This is it.” Absolute.
I pressed my face to the bars, trying to see more. “How do we find out what happened? We’ll need archives. Police reports from the fire.”
“The official story will be scrubbed if Oblivion was involved.”
“There might be people to talk to. Former staff. Kids who—”
My pocket buzzed. I jumped. The burner. Unknown number.
We traded a quick look. Nobody had this number except Mattie.
I hesitated over the answer button.
“Don’t.” Specter covered my hand. “We don’t know who has it.”
“It could be Mattie. She’s the only one we called.”
“Or Oblivion tracing us.” His jaw worked. “Risk assessment says let it ring.”
