Page 38 of Regressive

“Woah,” he says, holding up his hands, one still holding the packet of money. “Settle down, big boy, if that one is your toy, let me know. I’ll pick another one.”

I take a step in the small doorway and say, “Little Lamb, get in the truck.”

“What?” she says, but then I hear a small gasp. She must’ve seen the gun. “Elon what—”

“Get in the truck,now.”

I hear more than see her leave the rickety building. Her feet shuffle across the hay floor and the heavy truck door opens and shuts with a slam. Once she’s safe, I cock the trigger. “I don’t know what you heard or have been told about the women in Serendee but you’ve been given the wrong impression.” Jeb swallows, his scraggly beard dipping to touch his chest. “Our women are sacred, prized possessions to be honored and worshipped.” The words are what I’ve been told a thousand times sitting at Anex’s feet, listening to hours of his lectures. But they taste bitter on my tongue. It’s what we preach, but not what we practice. “Take your product,” I say, shoving the basket at him and then snatching the money out of his hand. I’d leave it, but then I’d have to tell Anex why I came home empty handed. “And be thankful I’m not blowing your brains out.” Jeb’s eyes close when I unlatch the trigger, the click loud in both of our ears. “If I find out you’re buying women from anyone else, I’ll be back. Understand?”

He nods slowly, and I step away, keeping my gun trained on him and then the woman at the counter. She’s hunched down, tears running down her face. I wonder if she knows how disgusting this man is.

Quickly, I get to the car, slamming the door and cranking up the engine with a deafening roar. I’m backed out and a mile away before I start breathing again.

“What happened?” Imogene asks.

“It was just a reminder that people aren’t always what they seem.” I grab her hand, threading my fingers with hers, and lift it, kissing the back.

She stares at me with a million questions in her eyes. I have no idea how to answer them because I have too many of my own.

18

Imogene

I can’t getanything out of Elon as he speeds away from the farm stand and drives to a nearby town. He hasn’t let go of my hand, steering the car one handed, the muscle at the back of his jaw ticking. All I know is whatever happened back there shook him up. As the miles pass, I can’t help but look at the packet he left on the seat between us. It’s thick with money—money that goes back to Anex.

He’d looked so different back there. Sure, he was strong and powerful. Commanding. Seeing him with the gun in his hand sent a thrill down my spine. Fear. Awe.

But it was the way he told me to run—the plea for my safety—that felt different. The look in his eye wasn’t hard and angry. It was soft and kind. Elon cares about me. And not just because I belong to his best friend. A strange feeling swirls in my belly as we drive over a bridge marked with a sign announcing that we’re entering Thistle Cove, home of the Vikings, the state football champions.

“Have you been here before?” I ask, desperate to break the silence.

“A couple times. There are just a few small dealers in the area. We keep them supplied.”

My whole life has been nothing but inside the walls of Serendee and the short trip to the Center once I got a job. Seeing all of these other places, it’s like visiting another world.

The town is small but cute and Elon quickly finds the public library. He parks the truck and says, “Just stick close to me, okay?”

I nod and wait as he exits the driver’s side and walks around to open my door, helping me down from the oversized truck. Our skin sparks when it touches, and his fingers linger, tangled with mine.

He looks down at our hands and pulls away, allowing mine to fall. Clearing his throat, he asks, “You said you needed to check social media sites?”

“Yes.” I follow him up the sidewalk to the library door. “Well, that’s what Rex called it. I kind of know what it is from my training sessions with Silas—the entertainment he showed me, but I don’t know how to navigate it at all.”

Social media, or how I understand it, is places on the computer where people can talk and meet each other.

“Who is he looking for that he couldn’t do it himself?” he asks as we walk into the cool, quiet building. A librarian observes us walk in, probably aware that we’re not from around here. A row of computer sits along one wall. Elon presses a hand into my lower back and directs me toward them and pulls out a chair for me. I sit and he grabs another chair, setting it close to mine.

My palms sweat at his question. What I’m asking him to participate in… well, it’s going to make whatever happened back at the farm stand seem minor.

“He wants me to find my mother.”

Just saying those words are enough to have me labeled as Regressive and sent down with the Fallen—after intense Corrections and public reprimand. It’s a testimony of how much I trust Elon that I would ask him to help me with something like this.

“I assume this is really abouthismother?” He asks. I nod and he just sighs, running his hand through his thick, dark hair. “And this is the rabbit hole he’s going down. Fucking great.”

He pulls the keyboard toward him and starts typing. A screen pops up that says, ‘Facebook’ and I watch as he types in a familiar, forbidden name, Camille Sanders.

Before I can breathe, a photo pops up. It’s both familiar and not. The eyes are the same, and the mouth, but the hair is short and graying. There are wrinkles and a lift to her chin—a confidence.

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