“And Maria?” I ask.
She shakes her head, and my gut clenches and I want to say, Are you sure? Really sure? But her expression leaves no doubt, and I turn away, hiding my grief as we continue walking.
There’s silence until we’re around the next corner. Then she says, “I keep telling myself this isn’t happening. That I’m hallucinating or delusional. That I’ve lost my mind and—” She stops short and her gaze swings to Max, who stiffens, his lips pressing together in a hard line. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“We aren’t in therapy right now, Aimee,” he says. “No one’s concerned with word choices. But we should probably be quiet. We can talk it all out later.”
“Which way, then?” I say. “Where are the meds?”
“Back in the therapy room.”
“Bloody hell,” Max says, exhaling a hiss through his teeth. “Could you have mentioned that?”
“I … I’m having trouble focusing.”
“Are you sure that’s where the phone is too?” I ask. “We don’t want to risk going back to the therapy room if we don’t have to. Not if that other guy is still alive and can raise the alarm.”
“I … I think Maria’s phone is upstairs, actually. With my things. Unless …” She straightens. “It’s either in the therapy room or upstairs. I’m sure of that.”
I resist the urge to echo Max’s bloody hell.
“But the mobiles they took from you and Lorenzo should be in the therapy room,” Max says. “With the meds.”
Aimee’s eyes go round. “Right, you need your—”
“Meds.” He looks at me. “For my condition. Heart thing.”
I look over sharply. “What?”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not going to keel over on you. I should just have them. In case.”
“You definitely need—” Aimee begins, but he cuts her off with a look, obviously not wanting her to make a big deal of it. Which means it is a big deal. He needs his medication, almost as much as we need a phone.
“We’ll go back to the therapy room, then,” I say. “We’ll figure something out once we’re there.”
We’ve been whispering as we move, our ears attuned to the sound of footsteps. Or mine and Max’s are—I can tell by the way he keeps tilting his head, his gaze shifting, tracking distant noises. I don’t think Aimee’s paying attention at all. Which makes me realize, yet again, how lucky I am to have Max. Now if we just survive long enough for me to tell him that.
He’s in the lead, and we’re halfway down the hall when his arm shoots out. He’s heard something. I do too, after he stops—a door closing down the next hall. Again he checks to see if I heard, but he’s a little slower this time, as if starting to trust himself. I nod and take a step backward, bumping into Aimee, who doesn’t move.
“What if it’s Aaron or Brienne?” she whispers.
“We’ll know that once we hear a voice,” Max says.
She glares at him. “You mean, when they’re shouting for help? Or pleading for their lives?”
“No need. If they’re like you, they won’t stop talking.”
He gets a real scowl for that. I whisper that we should retreat to a room and listen. He agrees. Aimee doesn’t—she’s certain the sound is the other kids, that our captors would make more noise as they search. She’s mid-explanation when Max lopes off, waving for me to follow. I do, and she reluctantly comes after us.
The first door we check is open. Inside is an actual office, or the beginnings of one, as if someone has started moving equipment in, preparing to take up residence. There’s a desk, a printer still in the box, a bookshelf and moving cartons. And what do I see when I look at them? Nothing except obstacles to stumble over and places to hide.
We get into the room, and I scoot behind the desk, Max vaulting over it, both of us stopping as we almost crash into each other, his lips twitching as if amused that we’ve both managed—in a single sweep of a dark room—to spot the biggest item and race behind it.
“Good idea,” Aimee whispers. “You two stay there. I’m going to get a better look.”
I leap up to stop her, but she’s already out the door and Max is ready to grab me back. He doesn’t need to. If she’s going to run headlong into danger, I can’t stop her. I can only hope she doesn’t lead danger back here.
I think that, and then I hate myself for it. Ah, self-loathing, I missed you for a few moments there.
But I’m not the only one thinking it, because Max grunts, exasperated, then hops over the desk and shuts the door all but a crack, enough to let her back in if she comes running but not wide enough to welcome her back if there’s a posse on her tail.
I strain to hear her footsteps. She took off her pumps when we left Lorenzo. They’re on the floor here, and wherever she is, she’s moving silently.
A distant click, like a door. Then Aimee says, “Oh, it’s you.” I wince at the loudness of her voice, and Max mutters a curse. Then Aimee inhales, sharply enough for the sound to carry.
“N-no,” she says, and I hear her then, as she backs up, and I grab the side of the desk, ready to scramble over it, knowing she’s made a mistake.
“Don’t. Please—”
The gun fires, and I’m over that desk before Max can stop me. Then I freeze.