Don't Turn Around (13 page)

She hesitated. Her pursuers already knew she was in the building. Even if they managed to track her computer again, aside from actually going room to room, they wouldn’t be able to narrow her location down any further than a block radius—that was how IP geolocation worked.

In which case, she didn’t have anything to lose.

Noa sent a chat request to A6M0.

After a minute, a box popped open.

Glad you got away
.

Who is this?

A friend
.

Noa stared at the screen. She didn’t really have any friends. There had never been a reason to form bonds with people who would shortly get shipped off to another foster home. When she was younger, and had first plummeted into the system, she’d made an effort a few times. But Noa had learned quickly that it was a pointless exercise. Most of her so-called “friends” ended up betraying her, anyway.

Noa typed:

What do you want from me?

Just to help
.

Prove it
.

How?

Get me out of here
.

A few minutes passed. Noa waited, impatient. Finally, a message appeared.

Hold tight. Working on it
.

She tapped a finger against the desk while she waited. The fatigue had passed and she felt wired again, like she’d just had a double shot of espresso.

Shortly before four a.m., Noa heard sirens outside. She froze. Had she unwittingly called on the wrong person for help?

A message popped up:

Leave in two minutes. Down the hall on the left, there’s a staircase. Take it two floors down. There’s a bridge to the library next door. Go there and take the stairs to the roof
.

There was a link to a .pdf file. Noa clicked on it and a floor plan materialized. Bold print at the top read: WIDENER LIBRARY. A shaky path dotted with periodic arrows was traced on it, basically following the same directions she’d just been given.

Noa chewed her lip uncertainly. Maybe she should just crash here tonight. No one could pinpoint exactly where in the building she was, and it would give her a few hours to figure out how to escape undetected. Contacting A6M0 might have been a mistake. For all she knew, she was being led straight into another trap.

Trust me
.

Why should I?
Noa typed in response.

A longer pause, then the words
Tanto Barf
appeared.

Noa started. It was an oblique reference, one that only kids who’d been exposed to what The Center charitably called “dinner” would know. Tanto Barf was traditionally the worst meal on the menu every month, a disgusting mass of glutinous turkey and lumpy potatoes smothered with a sauce that tasted like paste. Years ago, some kid had nicknamed it “Tanto Barf,” and the moniker stuck.

So her new pen pal had done a stint in The Center. In and of itself that wasn’t reason enough to believe him. But at the moment, she was low on people to trust. And from the sound of it, there were cops outside. Had A6M0 called them out, or was that thanks to campus security?

What’s up with the sirens?

Cops—I figured they’d clear the building and give you a chance to get away. The guys chasing you pulled back, but they’re still watching the exits. You need to go wait on the roof
.

Then what?
Noa typed. Being stranded on the roof when it was freezing outside didn’t seem like much of a plan.

You’ll see,
it said.
Now go!

Noa took a deep breath. She didn’t have a lot of options, and her gut insisted that staying here would be a mistake. She had no idea if Otis had even made it out of the building—they might be questioning everyone who tried to leave. And who knew what sort of story they’d spun about her. There could be a cadre of armed men headed toward her right now.

Deciding, Noa shoved the laptop back in her bag and slung it over her shoulder. She carefully eased open the door and peeked down the corridor—no one in sight. She made her way down the hall, moving as quietly as possible.

The main hall appeared clear, although she could hear voices on the floors below and the sound of tramping feet. Quickly, she hurried down the hall toward the stairwell indicated on the floor plan. Noa ran down two flights and found herself facing a long, narrow causeway. It was all windows and rounded on top, like something in an aquarium.

No one in sight on the other side, but while running along it, she would be horribly exposed. Anyone outside would be able to see her.

She crossed as quickly as possible. It ended in another corridor.
Apparently college was just one big oak-paneled, carpeted maze,
she thought, trotting past yet another series of paintings featuring grim old men.

She found the utility access stairwell indicated on the map and climbed up one flight. The door at the top opened directly onto the roof. Noa stepped out into the cold and immediately started shivering. If anything, the interior of the libraries had been too warm, the heating system pumped into overdrive.

In contrast to the brick facade, the rooftop appeared jarringly modern, covered in an industrial light gray sheath that shimmered in the dark. Mechanical ventilators and fans poked out of it like bizarre metal flowers. On the far side, a solar panel array tilted up at a jaunty angle.

She couldn’t see any way down.

Noa went to the edge. The library she’d just come from was several stories taller; it loomed over this one. Still, she was three stories off the ground. There was no visible fire escape running along the outside, no other stairwell. She was trapped.

She dug out her laptop and dropped into a squat. The light from the screen seemed too bright, like a spotlight illuminating her, but it couldn’t be helped. She got back online and sent a message:
Now what?

Climb down
.

Noa frowned. Heights were never her thing. She tentatively went to the edge again and looked over. At the top of every window was a narrow marble ledge that looked just wide enough for her feet. But it was at least eight feet from the top of one down to the next, with little to hold on to. Spiderman couldn’t make that descent.

She went back to the computer and typed,
No f’n way
.

Far side, by the solar panels
.

Noa clamped her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering and pulled on her jacket hood. She went to the other end of the roof, carrying the laptop with her.

She peered over the edge. There was a single-story drop to a lower roof. Two more stories to the ground from there, but tall trees buttressed either side. Some of the branches looked like they’d be within reach once she got down there.

Noa tucked her computer back in her bag and made sure the strap was as tight as she could get it, pressed right up against her body. She slung one leg at a time over the ledge, then grasped the cold marble lip with her fingers and lowered her body down.

Her feet dangled five feet from the next roof. Noa took a deep breath and let go.

The impact shot from the soles of her feet up into her shins and she couldn’t help crying out. Noa fell to the side, wincing, clutching at her right foot—it felt like the jolt might have reopened the cut on her heel. It took a second to catch her breath. She rolled her ankles: Nothing appeared broken or sprained, which, under the circumstances, was a minor miracle. Her messenger bag had hit the rooftop hard, too, she realized. Hopefully her laptop wasn’t damaged.

No time to check, though. Noa got up and limped to the nearest tree branch. It appeared thick enough to hold her weight. It was hard to see in the dark, but below she could make out more branches spaced at regular intervals along the trunk.

She scanned the ground and ticked off a few minutes in her head. The tree was on the periphery of another quad. Impressive brick buildings of various heights and shapes huddled protectively around it. The campus appeared quiet, no sign of movement. The sirens were gone. Noa forced herself to focus. Waiting would only give her muscles a chance to stiffen up, which would make the descent harder.

No choice,
Noa reminded herself. And whatever the doctors in those files had planned for her would invariably be worse.

She took a deep breath, grabbed hold of the branch with both hands, and wrapped her legs around it. Noa shimmied along until she reached the trunk, the bark rough and scratchy against her palms. She didn’t allow herself to look down. A few of the smaller branches jutting out from the main one scratched her face, but she barely felt them. A tremor coursed through her whole body; it took everything she had not to give in to the fear.

It took ages to climb down. Noa nearly lost her grip a few times. She’d catch hold at the last moment, clutching the branch with her whole body, panting hard from exertion and fear.

The final branch was the worst. The darkness threw off her depth perception, so it was impossible to gauge how big of a drop it was to the ground. She couldn’t even tell if it was cement below her, or grass. Noa hung suspended for a long moment, paralyzed by the enormous risk she ran by staying there, but terrified to let go....

She landed on spongy grass. This time it didn’t hurt quite as much, maybe because it was a softer surface, or she’d done a better job of tucking and rolling. She lay there for a minute, half expecting men to materialize from the darkness, swarming and carrying her away.

But nothing happened. She took a deep breath and got up. Sticking to the shadows, Noa made her way across the quad and back to the city streets.

CHAPTER EIGHT

P
eter couldn’t sleep. Which was rare—he’d always been able to just shut his eyes, drift off, and wake up eight hours later, pretty much to the minute.

But he’d lain awake for hours staring at Amanda’s ceiling. They were crammed side by side in her twin bed. She was on the outside, facing away from him. Usually she intertwined her feet with his and pressed her back up against him. He’d wrap an arm around her and fall asleep with stray lavender-scented hairs tickling his nose. But tonight, despite the narrow mattress, there were a few inches of space separating them. If she had thicker rugs, he would have offered to sleep on the floor.

He couldn’t stop picturing the expression on Amanda’s face when she looked up at the prom king, aka Drew. She used to look at him like that, not so long ago.

They’d first met at a mixer. Because all of the local private schools were so small, they pooled resources for the big dances. Thank God, because Peter’s graduating class was only seventy kids, and they were one of the larger preps. It would have been depressing to go to a homecoming dance with a grand total of twenty couples.

The Winter Ball was always held at a hotel downtown. The decorations were the same every year: small white lights strung around fake ficus trees, cardboard snowflakes dangling from the ceiling, a DJ spinning decades-old music in the corner. Lame, but then that’s how high school dances were supposed to be: Half the fun came from mocking them. Mackenzie Sullivan was his date. They were going more as friends than anything else, although he knew she secretly liked him. Peter figured maybe they’d get drunk, head to Donny Laurelli’s after-party, and make out a little.

Then he saw Amanda across the room. Almost all of the girls were wearing red, white, or black puffy satin prom gowns. But Amanda had on a light purple dress that hit just below her knee, with a scoop neck and spaghetti straps—fancy and sophisticated, but not showy. Her dark blond hair had been curled into ringlets and she was wearing black stockings and high heels. She looked bored.

In a sea of high-school girls who were all minor variations on one another, she practically glowed. For the first time in his life, Peter was dumbstruck. It took five whole minutes to get up the courage to approach her. Which was completely insane. He’d always been lucky with girls; he was commonly known as “the easiest guy to talk to.”

And yet once Peter got over to her, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

She finally noticed him and turned. Peter felt self-conscious. He was wearing a dark suit and black shoes. But instead of the standard shirt and tie, underneath he had on a fake tuxedo T-shirt that he’d found at a thrift store. It was meant to be ironic, but when he saw her raised eyebrow he wondered if it came across as juvenile and stupid.

“Hey,” Peter finally managed.

“Hey.” She took a sip of punch and looked away from him, back out to the dance floor. Everyone was bopping along halfheartedly, like they refused to commit to dancing when the song sucked. Peter wished he’d thought to grab a cup of punch; his throat was suddenly unbearably dry.

“I’m Peter.”

“Amanda.”

She kept scanning the room, not even looking at him, which was unnerving. Usually the situation was reversed.

“So where do you go to school?” he finally managed.

“Brookline Girls.”

“Yeah? That’s all girls, right?”

She threw him a glance and said slowly, “That’s why they call it Brookline Girls.”

“Sure, I knew that,” Peter mumbled. He was suddenly hyperconscious of how his hands hung by his sides. He jammed them in his pockets and asked, “So you have to wear uniforms there?”

“Yes,” she said after a minute.

“That sucks. I go to Country Day. Coed, no uniforms.”

“Mm-hm.” Amanda was craning her head now, actively looking for someone else to talk to.

Peter realized he was crashing and burning. It was startling, unprecedented. He glanced around to see if anyone he knew had taken note. Stumbling over the words, he asked, “Are you going to any of the after-parties?”

“Probably not.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “Not really my scene. Besides, I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I volunteer.”

“Oh.” Peter realized he was nodding excessively, like some kind of idiot. “Well, they don’t start that late. I mean, this dance sucks worst than last year, so people will probably take off soon.”