Phelps looks between us, and there’s speculation in his gaze. With a shrug, he grabs his bag and leaves the room.
It’s just the two of us now. I glance around so I don’t have to look at him, but I can feel his attention focused squarely on me. Too bad my roommate isn’t around. “Where’s Junie?”
“Scouting.”
My gaze snaps back to him. “You mean outside the compound?” Impatience snakes through me. I want to be outside. I want to be gone from here. After last night, I want this more than anything else. That sensation of being trapped down here is stronger than ever. “I thought you weren’t sending out any people—”
“Across the river?” he finishes for me. “No, we’re not right now.”
“But Junie—”
“She scouts. That’s what she does. She’s good at it. Sending convoys to Mexico isn’t the only thing we do here. We gather supplies, monitor patrols. I’m leading a group out tomorrow to—”
Hope swells in my chest. “But you just said—”
“I’m staying stateside.” And just like that, my hope deflates. “There’s a station east of here that Marcus wants to check out,” he adds.
At my questioning look, he explains, “It’s a checkpoint—went up after the Agency partnered with Border Patrol. If I let Marcus go on his own, he’ll probably blow the place up and the Feds will rain down on us afterward. The goal is to make an impact that doesn’t beg for them to use every bit of manpower at their disposal to track us and wipe us out. At least that’s my goal. Not always so with Marcus.”
“So you’re going along to keep him on a leash?”
“Something like that.”
I scan him. Hands half-buried in his pockets, even with his forearms tense, he looks . . . relaxed. Not at all like someone about to go on a dangerous mission. “Why not just let him blow it up? They can search for you all they want. You’re underground. They want us dead. Or in cages.” I sweep a hand around us. “They’ve forced us to hide like fugitives.”
He studies me for a moment. “You think I should do that? Let dozens of people die? They can’t all be bad, can they?”
I snort, hating that he’s making me feel small and . . . wrong. “They think we’re all bad. Evil.”
He pushes off the doorjamb and approaches me where I recline on the bed. “You’re not as merciless as you act.”
This annoys me. I angle my head sharply. “All you need to know about me is this.” I point to my neck. It’s funny how I actually believe that now. I didn’t at first. I fought so hard to deny that HTS determined anything about me at all. In so short a time, I’ve become a realist. But then I had to. Optimism can get you killed. “Isn’t that enough?”
He smiles again, his lips curling like some kind of sexy lead singer in a boy band, and I really dislike him right then. That he can look so normal. Like a boy I would have liked in another place, another time.
“I think there’s more to you than that, Homecoming Queen.”
My hands clench at my side. I’ve already shared too much.
His gaze flicks to my hands, then back to my face. “Not gonna let me in anymore, huh?” With a sigh, he turns and opens the door to my room—my cell. “Maybe when I get back we can talk some more.”
“About leaving and finding my friends?”
He hesitates, one hand on the doorknob. “All right.”
“All right?” This is the last thing I expect him to say.
He nods. “I’m not the bad guy. Maybe you’ll believe that someday.”
I do already. “All I know is that I need to sleep with one eye open here.”
“And that I saved your life,” he reminds me, his gaze so open, guileless. “You know that, too. I can be your friend.”
“I don’t need a friend. I already have friends. I just need to get back to them.”
He does that smiling thing with his mouth again. What does he have to be happy about? “Why are you so . . .” I grope for the word. Happy. Pleasant. Instead, I just go with, “Don’t you ever get mad?”
He shrugs. “Sure. Everyone does. You don’t have to be a carrier to feel that emotion.”
“But you are,” I remind him. “A carrier.” So how come I haven’t seen a whiff of true anger from him? Not a raised voice, not the flash of fury in his eyes. Nothing.
Something passes over his face. For a moment, he looks uneasy, but then he blinks and it’s gone. “We all handle anger . . . stress . . . differently.”
“I would think being here . . . doing this, would bring that out in a person.”
“What about you?”
“Me? I tried to kill you the first moment we met.”
“You were reacting to the situation. Out of your head with sickness and pain. You were afraid. Not angry.”
“You’re splitting hairs. It’s the same result.”
“No,” he says evenly. “Fear and killing—anger and killing, for that matter—don’t necessarily go hand in hand.”
“Have you ever killed someone?”
It’s like a shutter falls over his face. The light in his eyes dims until he stares at me with flat brown eyes. A fire banked. No longer amber. Just brown.
“I take that as a yes,” I murmur, not wanting to feel kinship with him, but I suddenly do. Because clearly he’s not proud or happy that he ended a life. Maybe we’re a little alike in that way. I suck in a breath, crushing that thought before it takes root. I don’t need thoughts like that. Especially about him. Especially as my days here are numbered.