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I swallow hard. “Bad memories. I…nearly killed Ariadne in here once.”
Lyssa raises her eyebrows. “That’s a bad memory? I thought putting that psycho down for good was your ultimate goal.”
“It is. But I…I lost control. The rage I felt…”
I trail off, unable to give voice to the truth—that in those blinding moments of fury, I terrified myself. That I was disgusted by my own actions.
“You really need to get hold of that anger,” Lyssa says casually. “You’ll be a much better fighter when you do.” She heads into the changing rooms and I follow, but once more, there’s nothing there. “Speaking of Ariadne, where’s her room?”
“It’s on this floor, actually.” Grateful for the redirect, I lead Lyssa further down the dark hallway outside the training room. Approaching the door of Ariadne’s apartment, I frown at one tiny detail I’ve never noticed before—not on any door in the whole high-rise, except for the penthouse suite’s security.
A lock.
I’ve never been this close to Ariadne’s room before, only knowing she lived in here because I’d seen her head “home” after training so often.
It’s not a sturdy lock, by any means. But it’s still more than any of the rest of us had. Lyssa makes short work of it with one powerful kick, the door crunching inward. The living area is as utilitarian as usual, same lounge setting found in every other living room in the place, and not a personal touch in sight.
But then we get to the bedroom, and I freeze in utter bewilderment.
It’s a saccharine, frilly explosion of pink and lace. Fuzzy blankets, stuffed toys, twinkling fairy lights, and glitter fly at me in a jarring visual onslaught.
“What the fuck…” is all I can say. It’s so utterly at odds with Ariadne’s harsh, brutal persona.
“Weird,” Lyssa mutters, her nose wrinkling in distaste as she takes in the bizarre decor.
“It’s way more than weird.” I scan the space with new clarity. “None of the other recruits were allowed anything like…this.” I gesture vaguely at the cluttered toys and kitschy furnishings. “I mean, that I know of. But I’ve seen a few rooms—” I wasn’t always the good little soldier when I lived here. Sometimes I snooped. And I’m pretty sure everyone else did, too. “—and besides that, this…aesthetic? If you can call it that? It doesn’t fit Ariadne at all.”
Lyssa moves deeper into the sickly-sweet space, her expression morphing into a contemplative frown. “You’re right. It doesn’t.” Her gaze cuts sharply towards me. “But actually, it feels…familiar, somehow. Like I’ve seen something similar, but can’t place it.”
The wrongness of it all coalesces into a horrible realization. “It’s like her emotional growth was stunted. Stuck in some…moment of childhood. Maybe teen-hood,” I allow, as I open the closet to see the back of the door peppered with posters of movies and bands that were big fifteen years ago. “What the fuck?” I mutter again, shaking my head.
Lyssa has already begun rifling through drawers, overturning pillows and stuffed toys. “Which means there could be answers here about what fucking psychological experiments Grandmother was up to. We need to tear this place apart.”
I join in, trying to focus instead of pausing every few seconds from sheer incredulity. I reach under the frothy canopy of the bed, and something crinkles. I pause to move the bedding up, and pull out a handful of shredded paper, scraping out a few more strands from the waffled pink rug that runs under the bed.
“Check it out,” I say to Lyssa, carefully gathering the pile together. “Shredded documents.”
Lyssa is at my side in an instant. “Interesting.” She sifts through the fragments. “Could be useful intel, if we can reconstruct them.”
“Not like I’ve got much else to do out at the farm,” I say. “Long as you bring me some scotch tape.”
There’s nothing else in the room. And nothing else of use in the high-rise, even after hours of searching. At last, we exit the way we came, and the Lyssa drives me back to my new prison, the abandoned farm.
But it’s not really a prison. I could get away easily enough if I wanted to. Could flee the state entirely, never give Lyssa the chance to take me out at all. Or try my luck alone with Grandmother and Ariadne.
I won’t run, though. Lyssa knows it as well as I do. I’m committed to seeing this through, whatever happens in the end.
As Chicago recedes behind us on the way back to the farm, all I can think about is that strange, grotesque room and those shredded papers. What information do they hold, and why were they under Ariadne’s bed? Did she hide them there—and if so, why?
Or are they just the bait for another trap from Grandmother?
CHAPTER 9
Lyssa
Back at Elysium, my room is still pretty bare, but I find myself kind of thankful that at least it’s not like the fucking Soviet conditions of Grandmother’s house. I’ve been too preoccupied with Scarlett and tracking down Grandmother to give a shit about interior design, and Aurora has been pestering me about it relentlessly, barraging me with fabric swatches and furniture catalogs. She’s like an overexcited puppy, bouncing around me with her bright-eyed enthusiasm for “making my space beautiful and serene.”
I love the girl, I really do. But there’s nothing serene about me or my life.
