Fever (The Chemical Garden #2) Page 42
Author: Lauren DeStefano

I clear my throat and look at my lap. “If you know her so well, you know she’d agree with me. Your father shouldn’t be left alone with the brides you claim to love so much.”

“Yes, well,” Linden says, walking for the door, “she was always a cynic. You need your rest; I’ll check on you in a bit.”

He doesn’t slam the door behind him, but it somehow feels that way.

I slump against the pillows, heartsick with guilt. In all our months of marriage, I kept Linden from getting to know me. I lied, I manipulated. But I got to know him very well. A year after Rose’s death, he can hardly bring himself to say her name, much less hear that her body is still a part of his father’s experiments. And I never intended to tell him about Vaughn murdering the only child Rose ever gave him. The child that could still be here, malformed but alive.

It’s true that Linden has no reason to believe me. But I saw the belief in his eyes. Now he can’t even look at me. But that doesn’t change the fact that Deirdre and who knows how many others are trapped in that basement, dying, maybe dead. And Cecily, who tries so hard to play the grown-up, has no idea of the danger she’s in. Linden is shocked by all this, and really, why wouldn’t he be? I think of the moment when I learned of Rose’s baby, how stunned and sickened I was. I wanted a more compassionate way to tell Linden, but it’s the sort of thing that has to be blurted. There’s no kind way to tell it.

I’m pinned to this bed by the wires in my arm, and there’s nothing I can do but wait. Even if I could get up and find Linden, he’s in no state to listen to me. If he didn’t hate me for running away, he certainly hates me for what I’ve just said. But at least I am sure that no amount of hatred would cause him to allow his father near me. He’ll come back, or he’ll tell the doctors to release me.

Images move without sound on the screen. Dreary side roads, cratered buildings that vaguely resemble houses. The air is ashen from a recent explosion. The cheery young newscaster walks backward, chattering into a microphone. I recognize her as the nationwide correspondent; this particular segment airs in every state. The caption reads: Pro-naturalist rebels disagree with antidote efforts.

The newscaster stoops down. She’s too clean and prim for such an ugly place. There’s a run in her stockings, and her red heels are starting to be overtaken with mud. She’s holding the microphone out to a group of young men and women who sit on the curb, looking filthy and exhausted but eager to speak.

One of them takes the microphone from her hand, and he’s speaking so angrily that she leans back. The camera pans in on him, the matted hair, bloodied cheek. His eyes, though, are bright and eager. And if not for them, I wouldn’t recognize him at all. Because those eyes are exactly like mine. I open my mouth to speak, and only a cry escapes. I cover my mouth, wait for the joy and fear and shock to become manageable, then try again.

“Rowan.”