I glance at the screen beneath my desk and find a text from Sara Brown, who sits two seats to my right.
Hey, are you okay? What did the terrorists do to you out there? Is it true you hooked up with Luke Hazelwood in the jungle?
I haven’t spoken to Sara since freshman year. I didn’t even realize she still had my number.
People are dead.
Maybe coming to school was a mistake.
I open my browser and search for information about the Splendor explosion. The first result includes photos of the victims—images of the faces I would have seen if I’d pulled back the blankets covering the bodies lined up on that Colombian beach.
I’m not hiding my phone anymore. Today, I could probably flip off the principal. But for several seconds, I sit frozen, staring at the text preview instead of clicking the link.
Amber and John McLean, both thirty-two, died on board the Splendor yesterday, where they were celebrating their tenth wedding anniversary. They are survived by three small children . . .
Oh, God. As I scroll through the links, a panicky pressure builds in my chest. Each comes with a picture and a text preview. Most of the victims were in their twenties and thirties. Most had kids. Many died alongside their spouses or significant others.
And their families still have no idea how and why they died.
Then I come to the word “survivor.” I tap the link feverishly, desperate for good news.
Pamela Mathis, single mother of four, survived the explosion of the Splendor off the coast of Colombia early Wednesday morning. She has been airlifted to a hospital in Miami where she is recovering from the loss of both lower legs and a spinal fracture that has left her paralyzed from the waist down. Doctors expect her recovery to take months . . .
The words blur, and when I blink, tears land on my phone. I feel sick.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Genesis pushed the button, but if she hadn’t, I would have. We were trying to save people. Instead, we killed hundreds and injured hundreds more. We made orphans and widows. We—
I jump up, still clutching my phone, and run for the door. Mrs. Wilkins’s surprise bleeds into sympathy as I pass her podium.
In the bathroom, I stand with my hands braced on the sink. I don’t even recognize the girl staring back at me in the mirror. The girl who’s gone on camera three times now and let the whole world believe a lie.
I hope Holden’s okay.
GENESIS
Holden has been gone for hours. I think. It feels like forever. And somehow, being alone in the dark is actually worse than being with him.
He’s not in the cabin. Uncle David has taken him somewhere, and Sebastián won’t tell me anything.
I can’t focus.
I think I’m losing my mind.
With one breath, I hope Holden’s okay. With the next, I hope he’s suffering at least a little, because he cheated on me with my best friend. He tried to get Sebastián to execute me at the base camp. I hope he’s hungry and exhausted because I’m hungry and exhausted, and I may deserve everything that’s happening to me right now, but Holden deserves what’s happening to me too.
Right?
Maybe we’re two halves of the same screwed-up coin. Maybe we both belong here.
My thoughts are tangled like a string tied in knots, and I can’t follow the threads. I’m too hungry. Too tired. But I can’t sleep, because every time—
The overhead light blinds me again, and I throw one arm over my eyes. Hinges squeal and I squint, trying to focus.
Holden steps into the room. He’s wearing clean clothes. His hair is wet. He smells good. And as I watch, simmering in jealousy, he licks a red smear from one finger.
Barbecue sauce. My stomach clenches at the scent. My mouth waters.
I got a bathroom break, a granola bar, and a damp washcloth. He got a shower, fresh clothes, and a hot meal.
The light blinks out and the door slams closed. The bolt slides into place with a soft grinding sound.
Holden settles onto the floor in the dark. “Your uncle’s not a bad guy.” He sounds smug, and if it wouldn’t be a waste of what little energy I have left, I would punch him in the face.
“If he gives you something, it’s because he wants something.” The envy in my voice probably undermines my point. “Nothing here is free.”
“You’re just pissed because—”
The light flares overhead and the door opens again. Sebastián’s blurry outline takes up most of the threshold.
I stand, blinking furiously, and the small room spins around me. That granola bar was nowhere near enough.
Sebastián bends to set a plate on the floor, then pushes it into the room. “You know the drill.”
“Wait!” I cry as Holden stands. But Sebastián slams the door and slides the bolt home. He leaves the light on.
I blink at the plate. Another peanut butter sandwich.
Holden dives for the food. I dart forward, but he’s closer. He wins. Again. Even though he just ate.
Despair crashes over me. I can’t miss another meal.
I lunge forward and sweep Holden off his feet. The effort exhausts me, but he thumps to the ground. The sandwich bounces off the plate onto the floor, and I grab it.
I back away, clutching my prize so hard that peanut butter squishes between my fingers. “Stay back,” I growl. I sound feral.
I’m not hungry.
MADDIE
Nothing has ever felt less relevant to my life than the choice between mass-produced chicken Parmesan and soybean burgers. I’m not hungry. But if I don’t eat, my blood sugar will drop, and the last thing I need is to pass out in front of the entire cafeteria.
No one’s really noticed me yet, so I head for the nearest food line with my head down, passing table after table full of classmates who didn’t spend their spring break in a terrorist base camp.
“. . . tour of French wine country. My dad’s obsessed with drinking wine within twenty kilometers of where it was bottled. So dull.”
“And I’m starting to freak out about the AP German test. I’m fine on the written, but my accent isn’t—”
“My mom said there’s nothing wrong with the shoes I wore to prom last year. Which means I have to wear red again.”
A loud crash rings out from the other side of the room, and I jump. My pulse races and I start to duck behind the nearest table. Then the cafeteria breaks out in applause as the poor freshman who dropped his tray begins to shovel sauce-drenched pasta back into its compartment.
Eyes down, I step into the queue for my lunch, but I’m not sure which line I’m in until the woman behind the sneeze guard drops a burger on my tray and hands me a paper boat of fries. I give my student ID number to the cashier, and as I wander out of the line, my gaze finds the table where I’ve sat all year with Kathryn Coppela.
I can’t sit there today.
The Maddie Valencia who left for spring break a week and a half ago—the Maddie who ate here five days a week for three straight years—is gone. She never made it out of the jungle.
This Maddie has no clue how to be here right now.
You’re a fraud.
GENESIS
“You really think you deserve that, after what you did?” Holden drops the paper plate and pushes himself to his feet. His jaw is tight, muscles tense.
I rip a bite from the peanut butter sandwich, ignoring the grit of dirt between my teeth.
He grunts as he lurches at me, hunched over, head low; he might as well tell me he’s going to tackle.
Still chewing, I step aside and he crashes into the rear wall headfirst. Stunned, Holden collapses.
I bite off a full quarter of the sandwich and chew rapidly, holding his focus.
He stays huddled in his corner, stubbornly refusing to rub the lump rising on his forehead while I tear another hunk from the sandwich. I recognize the cold glint in his gaze, and it isn’t hunger. It isn’t anger. It’s hatred. Holden doesn’t just want to take my food. He d
oesn’t just want to win, or to humiliate me, or to gain the upper hand.
He wants to hurt me.
“I’m going to testify at your trial. You and your drug smuggling father are going to get exactly what you deserve,” he spits. “And I doubt a six-by-eight prison cell comes with an ocean view, princess.”
Prison. Holden is threatening me with prison?
“This coming from a guy who sells his dad’s pharmaceutical samples at parties.” And it’s not like Holden needs the money. He sells because it puts him in demand. Makes him feel important.
His dismissive huff fills the small room. “You’re a fraud, Gen. Your uncle told me the truth. You may not have known those bombs were on a cruise ship, but you knew they were on one of your dad’s ships. You blew them up to destroy evidence linking him to the drug trade.”
“Holden, that is not—”
“That’s obstruction of justice. Another felony.” He pushes himself to his feet again and stalks toward me with newfound confidence. “If you ever get out of this cage, I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life in another one.”
I see nothing but the red haze of rage. I lunge at him and hook my arm around Holden’s neck, dragging him off balance. He hits the floor on his back. The entire cabin shudders.
I drop with my left knee on his rib cage and unleash on his face, fury making up for what I currently lack in strength. Blood bursts from his nose. His lip splits. His teeth cut my knuckles.
Sebastián pulls me off of Holden.
I twist out of his grip, snarling, but the pistol pointed at my face ends my protest.
Uncle David appears in the doorway as Holden pushes himself to his feet, wiping his bloody face on his clean shirt. “I’m sorry.” He waves Holden forward. “Krav Maga. My brother created a monster.”
“You started this,” I remind Holden as they escort him from the room.
And suddenly I’m in the dark, alone with my rage.
This will be okay.
MADDIE
I turn and am heading for the exit, still clutching my lunch tray, when my name echoes across the cafeteria. All around me, chatter fades into silence. I can feel them staring at me. My body tenses, my grip on the tray almost painful.
Then he says my name again. “Maddie.” I exhale when I recognize the voice and turn to see Luke jogging across the cafeteria toward me, as if hundreds of people aren’t staring at him. At us. As if he doesn’t see a damn one of them.
I never even noticed that he and I had the same lunch period before we were taken hostage together. But then, I hadn’t really noticed Luke himself before that either.
“Hey.” He stops a foot away, and there’s something fragile in his expression. Something hopeful but unsure. As if I might ignore him here, at school, after spending twenty-four hours a day with him in the jungle. After clinging to him when the plane landed in Miami, and my mother stood with the small crowd, expecting to hug both of her kids. And finding only one.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper to Luke as Penelope heads for the fold-down staircase that will lead us off the small plane. I’m standing in the narrow aisle, with nothing between me and the exit but my own fear, yet I can’t make my feet move. “I can’t tell her that I lived and he didn’t. That I left him there . . .”
I can’t tell my mother that Ryan died because I was stupid. Because we went back for my lost insulin. Because I got caught and he was trying to defend me.
“You didn’t leave him,” Luke whispers. “You survived. Come on. I’ll be right there with you.” His hand slips into my grip, fingers intertwining with mine.
I follow him down the aisle and off the plane. My mother’s face lights up when she sees me. Then she looks past me, waiting for Ryan. When we step onto the tarmac, someone folds the stairs up behind us. Understanding crashes over my mother’s face. Her hands steeple over her mouth and nose. She starts to cry.
Tears fill my eyes. Luke’s hand is a warm, firm anchor holding me steady in a churning sea of grief. . . .
“Do you . . . um . . . want to sit with me?” Luke asks, and I shake off the memory to find him watching me in equal parts concern and . . . anxiety. As if I might say no, now that we’re back at school and I have other options.
“Yes.” Relief echoes in my voice, and he stands straighter. “Thank you.”
His smile is the warmth of the sun on my back and the crash of the waves over my feet—everything good and beautiful about our trip to Colombia. He takes my tray in one hand and wraps his other arm around my waist, guiding me across the room toward his table, while everyone in the cafeteria watches us. While curious whispers rise all around us.
As I pull out the chair next to Luke’s, Kathryn’s gaze catches mine and she smiles with a glance at him. She looks happy for me. For us.
Luke sets my tray down at his table and introduces me to his friends. Landon Johnson and Jayesh Bhatt are fellow Eagle Scouts and Luke’s known Michael Tu and his girlfriend, Emma, since day care.
“So,” Jayesh says as I sit down across from him, “Luke tells us you roast a mean marshmallow.”
I blink at him. Then I laugh. Maybe this will be okay. I mean, it’s still really weird to be here, after being out there, but maybe—
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and read the text from an unidentified number. My smile dies as chill bumps rise on my arms.
I know you’re lying.
I’m not daring him.
GENESIS
A door squeals open outside my room and light leaks from a crack I hadn’t noticed in the left-hand wall. I crawl across the floor and peer through the crack into another small room next to mine. On the floor lies a bare mattress.
Holden limps into the room looking healthy, clean, and well-fed, aside from the bruises and split lip I gave him. The light in his room stays on, even after the door closes, and when I squint, I can make out a switch by the door.
Uncle David has given him food, clean clothes, water, and light.
I want to bang on my door and demand food, but the thought of standing is overwhelming. Exhausting. Which is why I shuffle forward on my hands and knees. I can’t afford to be too tired to ask for food.
“Hey!” I shout, but my voice is weak. Which pisses me off. “Hey!” This time I pound on the door to make sure I’m heard. “If you’re not trying to kill me, you need to feed me now.”
Footsteps thump toward my room and I scramble away from the door as it opens. My uncle’s silhouette is backlit by blinding light from the main room. “You are definitely your father’s daughter.”
“And my uncle’s niece,” I tell him as I shield my eyes from the glare. For a moment, I think he’s going to yell at me. Then he laughs instead. “Uncle David . . .” I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.” I’m not daring him. I’m calling what I hope is his bluff. “Don’t let me die like this. I’m still your blood.”
He stares at me as if he’s trying to decide something.
“You’re not going to let us go, are you?”
His eerie calm makes my stomach pitch. “Holden’s release is already being worked out.”
I blink, so startled by his answer that I hardly even register the slice of afternoon jungle I can see through the open window over his shoulder. “Why not mine?”
“Because I can’t trust you.”
“But you can trust him? He killed one of your men!”
“You blew up my arsenal! I had plans for that shipment, but now I’ve had to move on to plan B, and that’s your fault, Genesis.”
Plan B? I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest.
“No. Please!” I stick my foot in the doorway when he tries to close me in again. The door hits my boot. “Don’t leave. What’s plan B?”
He pushes my boot out of the way with his own, and when he starts to close the door again, to leave me alone and starving in the dark, tortured by the knowledge that he’s planning another attack I won’
t be able to stop, I say the only thing I can think of that might truly hurt him.
“Didn’t you ever wonder why Ryan looked more like me than like Maddie?” My uncle turns on me, and I fight the urge to step back as rage storms behind his eyes. “Ryan thought you died a hero, building houses for the poor in Colombia. You must be so relieved he never found out you were actually a terrorist.”
My uncle slams the door in my face and locks it.
I laugh out loud, to be sure he can hear me.
Then I retreat into my corner and wipe silent tears from my face.
8 DAYS, 1 HOUR EARLIER
I’m sorry.
MADDIE
Fifteen minutes after I texted him, Luke knocks on my front door. I let him in with a kiss, then tug him past my mom and the funeral planning station she has set up on the table. She doesn’t look up.
“What’s with all the catalogues?” Luke asks as I close my bedroom door behind us.
“Ryan’s funeral is on Wednesday. Uncle Hernán told her not to worry about the cost.” He’s throwing money at another problem, because he won’t come back to the United States for the funeral while Genesis is still in Colombia. “And now she can’t decide whether Ryan would prefer marble or granite. A flat marker or a headstone.”
I’d rather think of him grinning as he dumps salt into my lemonade than lying under any kind of gravestone.
“At least she’s staying busy.” He sinks onto the end of my bed and I sit in my desk chair facing him. The room is so small that our knees nearly touch. “That’s probably among the healthier coping mechanisms.”
“I guess,” I say as I dig my phone from my pocket.