The Girl Who Punched Back (Death Fields 2)

“Fever’s still down,” Jude replies. “And he drank some water.”

Cole nods and squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll go check on him.” He disappears down the hall.

“He’s a doctor?” Jude asks.

“Sort of. A researcher that worked with my father in Raleigh. He was in med school when shit hit the fan, and has some other experience in the field.”

Parker nods. “What does he think about Paul and the others at the school?”

“He thinks it’s likely they were exposed to a volatile vaccine. He wants to keep an eye on it.” I try to keep my voice even. “We should all be careful.”

“He thinks the vaccine is what caused the outbreak at the school?” Davis asks. I can’t decide if he’s playing dumb to appease me or what. Damn this trust thing.

“A vaccine, or whatever it was they were testing.”

I decide not to say anything further but I feel Wyatt’s eyes on me. He and I need to talk, that’s for sure. He brought Cole here for a reason. He is either trying to placate me or he’s trying to wake me up.

Our eyes meet and I realize it’s likely he’s doing both.

*

I get my chance an hour later when I follow Wyatt into the tiny bathroom just off the kitchen.

“Seriously?” he says.

“I needed to talk to you. In private.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like to take a piss, you know, in private, too.”

I make a face. The word piss is gross. “I only need five minutes.”

He snorts and shakes his head. “You always ‘only’ need five minutes.” Not one to remain idle, he moves to the sink and opens the medicine cabinet. He plucks a packet of shaving gel and a razor from inside before turning on the water.

I close the toilet lid and sit down.

“What do you know?” I ask.

“About what?”

“About why you sent for Cole. About Paul and the strange illness. About the school. About who bombed them.” I take a deep breath. “About everything.”

He glances down at me while lathering his face with a blue gel that quickly turns white and foamy. “You always overestimate my security level. I’m not as all-knowing as you think I am.”

“You may not know everything going on at The Fort, but you have suspicions.”

His hands splash in the water and he expertly glides the razor across his face. I have a quick, wistful memory of my dad from years ago and push away the feeling before it engulfs me whole.

“Did you know that I grew up in Maine?” he asks suddenly.

“No, actually, I figured you were from down here.” Of course, everything he’s ever told me could be a lie. I’ve considered that before.

“Yeah,” he says. The razor scrapes away another strip of hair. “I grew up in this tiny town. Completely idealistic, like something you’d see on TV. To me, it was small and claustrophobic. Everyone knew one another. Our lives were mapped out ahead of us. My dad worked for the post office. He hated it, but it was a good job and he figured me and my brothers would all do the same thing or something similar. Something stable and mind-numbingly boring. Of course, the idea of working in a tiny, brick building sorting mail for thirty years made me scared—and angry.”

“I can imagine.”

“It didn’t matter, though. I knew what I wanted to do—but I’d just never known anyone that had done it before. Not by choice, anyway.”

“What was that?” I ask.