Wilder Girls - Rory Power Page 0,33

not since Mr. Harker left. The crackle of static, the filter and hiss of a walkie-talkie, and a voice. A man’s voice. It’s like cold water in my veins, and a shiver scrapes over me.

“Raxter, call in, over.”

There’s a beep, and then a hitch in the static. “This is Raxter, over.”

I jerk with surprise and narrowly miss hitting my head against the window frame. It’s Welch, not Headmistress like I was expecting. Welch doesn’t come up here much, if ever.

“Requesting status report,” the man says. “Over.”

It must be someone from the base on the coast—the Navy or the CDC. They’re the only other people in the world who know what’s happening here. Even our parents don’t know the whole truth. Influenza, I think that’s what they were told. I wonder if they knew it was a lie.

“All well,” Welch says. “Did the replacement arrive safely? Over.”

Silence, and then the man says, “Confirming receipt. Over.”

Receipt? And replacement for what? Nothing leaves the island, not even our bodies. When one of us dies, we burn her out back, as far from the house and the fence as we can manage. A whole square of earth scorched, the smell unbearable, bones and fillings buried under stone cairns.

“There’s something else,” Welch says, sounding almost reluctant. “We have to make a return. Over.”

The supplies, that’s what I think of first, but we’ve done that already. She has to mean something else.

For a long moment no answer. Welch starts to pace, and I track her movement as the steady light under the door shifts. She won’t come in here, I tell myself. I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe. Finally, her walkie chirps back to life.

“This time tomorrow,” the man says. “Drop her at the Harker house. Over.”

Her. Not the body, but her, and that’s Byatt. It has to be. And they’re talking about her like she’s still someone. I feel my heart bloom with relief. But if she’s not here, where is Welch keeping her until tomorrow? And what for?

Welch stops pacing. “Confirmed, over.”

“Over and out.”

The air goes quiet. A moment later the light under the door fades, and I hear Welch’s footsteps heading farther along the hall. I ease out the window, heave it shut. Settle on my hands and knees and slowly, slowly, inch across the roof. The Gun Shift girls still have their eyes on the trees, and they don’t see me as I lower myself over the edge and swing in through the second-floor window.

I sneak down the hallway, across the mezzanine. Check the rise of the moon, mark it in my head—this time tomorrow, that’s what the man on the walkie said—and go back to my own room, to my own bed. To Reese, sitting up in her bunk and waiting for me, because of course she knows I left.

“Something’s happened,” I say. “She’s not in the infirmary.”

Reese frowns, and I can see it already, the disbelief building in her. “What are you talking about?”

“And there was this man, on the walkie.” I’m practically out of breath, tumbling over myself to get it all out.

“Slow down. Start from the beginning.”

I tell her everything, about the empty rooms, about the needle and thread. About Welch, about the walkie-talkie and the man’s voice on the other end, about the plans they made to take Byatt to the Harker house.

“I don’t know where else Welch could be keeping her,” I finish, leaning against the ladder. I can feel a shake setting in my muscles. “She has to be holding her somewhere if they’re not leaving until tomorrow.”

The classrooms on the ground floor aren’t private enough, and there aren’t any outbuildings on the grounds besides the barn. Just an old toolshed, but we’ve torn that apart for firewood. “What do you think?” I say, looking to Reese.

At first she says nothing, the light from her hair showing me her widened eyes. And then she lets out a shuddering sigh.

“My house,” she says. A strange contortion of her face, like she’s trying not to laugh, or maybe cry. “You’re sure he said my house?”

Of course that’s what she’s focusing on. I guess I can’t exactly blame her. “I’m sure,” I say. “For real, Reese, we have to find Byatt. She’s still here somewhere.”

“I’m sure she is,” Reese says. Words light and easy, a deliberately blank expression on her face, and that means she’s holding something back.

“But what?” I say. “Byatt’s here somewhere, but what?”

I should be expecting it, but it’s still a surprise