Chapter 11: The Question

"Yes," Reed said.

I had been ready for a rule number, a lie or a shrug.

I had not been ready for him to say it flat and plain, with his shirt in his hand and his eyes on mine.

"You knew," I said. "You knew about the copy. You knew about Friday."

"I know what's in it. I know when it sends."

"And you let me find out from a girl with a ponytail."

"I couldn't tell you yet."

I yanked my T-shirt over my head, and it came out inside out, and I did not fix it.

"You can talk now," I said. "You've been talking for twenty minutes. You said 'Come with me.' You said 'Tell me what you want.' Say why."

"If I tell you without proof, you won't believe me."

"Try me."

"Lucy."

"Eleven families," I said. "Eleven families told me it was for my own good. Then they put me in a car."

My voice cracked on the car.

I hated that it cracked.

Reed crossed the booth in two steps.

He did not touch me.

He stood close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him, and he said it low and steady.

"I'm not putting you in a car."

"Then what's the printed schedule? What's the PA announcement? What's the four hundred contacts on a table like a rap sheet?"

"The schedule," he said, "is the only thing I had."

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