“Okay. ” I turn and pad back to the bedroom but don’t crawl into bed. Instead, I throw on clothes and shoes, pull my hair up into a bun on the top of my head, and wait until I hear the front door close softly behind him. Then I sprint to the kitchen for a jug of water and slip out after him.
I don’t really think through why I’m following him, but I want to know what he’s up to, why he’s keeping something secret from me. Which is ridiculous, given the number of secrets I have from him. But I want to discover what he’s doing and I’m not above sneaking around in order to find out.
Following him without being seen or heard is difficult. He walks the same route as we took to the river, at least at first, but he navigates fast and sure through the woods, barely slowing for downed tree limbs or branches that effortlessly reach out and find places on me to scratch. I’m hoping the sound of his footfalls drown mine out because I’m hardly quiet, practically having to run to keep sight of him in spots.
I begin to hear the river to our right and know the pool is close, but he veers left, off the path, and straight into the tangled undergrowth. I lean against a tree trunk for a second to catch my breath before heading after him. Vines tangle around my ankles and foliage snatches at my bare arms. I manage to sidestep a large rock half buried in the ground, but my foot snags on a tree root and I go down hard, landing on my right shoulder.
I lay there for a minute, breathing through gritted teeth. I’m not hurt so much as stunned, although a tiny rivulet of blood runs down my arm. This was such a bad idea, but it’s too late to turn back now. I have to know what he’s doing. I push myself to my knees and then to my feet and head after him. I’ve completely lost sight of him and I cock my head, hoping to hear something. Nothing but silence. Risking the noise, I run in the direction Bishop was last headed, leaping over obstacles and straining for any glimpse of his blue T-shirt.
I stop again, listening. There’s the faint sound of voices coming from ahead and slightly to my right. They are difficult to hear over the leaves whispering in the early morning breeze. I can’t hear what the voices are saying, but I’m positive the deeper one is Bishop’s. I move slowly now, careful to set each foot down quietly as I move in the direction of the sound.
I’m not sure exactly where I am. I can no longer hear the river, but up ahead and through the trees I see sunlight glinting off metal. The fence. What is Bishop doing at the fence? Maybe he’s talking to one of the patrol guards? My breathing is labored and not only from running. I inch closer, stopping right on the edge of the tree line and hiding myself behind a wide trunk.
The fence stretches in either direction, a large gate set into it about ten yards to my left. Is this where the prisoners are put out? There is a patch of grass and weeds about twelve feet wide between the tree line and the fence. Directly in front of me, Bishop is crouched next to the fence, talking to a figure laying on the ground on the other side. I press myself against the trunk and crane my neck to try and get a closer look. It’s a girl on the ground, her long hair tangled around her face like a dirty cloud. The only skin visible is one mud-encrusted foot. It looks more bone than flesh.
“Come on,” Bishop says. “Take the water. Please. ” He shoves a slim container of water through a gap in the fence, but it falls to the ground on the other side. The girl makes no move to reach for it. She looks dead, but I know she must not be if Bishop is talking to her.
“Hey, I already told you, stop wasting your time with her,” a man’s voice calls, and my head whips to the side, scanning the fence line. It takes me a minute to locate the source of the voice. There’s a man sitting outside the fence, most of him camouflaged by long grass. I catch a flicker of shrewd blue eyes. Mark Laird. My blood freezes in my veins. There’s no sign of the two men put out with him. Maybe they’ve moved on, looking for shelter, food, water. Maybe he killed them. Either possibility seems likely.
Bishop ignores him, doesn’t even turn his head. He pushes some bread through the fence. It meets the same fate as the water, landing untouched on the ground.
“Don’t give her that!” Mark protests as he pulls himself to standing using the chain-link fence for leverage. He’s favoring his right leg. He was walking fine yesterday. “She’s practically dead anyway! You’re feeding a corpse. ”
“Shut up,” Bishop says, still not looking at Mark. I’ve never heard him sound so cold. He bends his head down, says something else to the girl that I can’t hear, but she doesn’t respond. After a minute, he stands with a sigh. I shrink back into the shadows of the tree.
Bishop walks over to Mark and shoves another container of water and more bread through the fence. Unlike the girl, Mark doesn’t waste any time before grabbing them, groping on the ground like the food and water might disappear if he’s not quick enough. Bishop watches, his face a blank mask I do not recognize.
“You need to find water,” Bishop says. “The river is that way. ” He points to the east with his head. “Food may be more difficult, but I’m sure you’ll figure something out. ”
“Is it safe to drink the water?”
“Do you have a choice?”
Mark shrugs at that, biting off a huge hunk of bread. He speaks with his mouth full. “Will you be back?”
“Don’t count on it,” Bishop says. He reaches a hand out lightning fast and pins Mark’s fingers against the fence where they’re hooked through the metal. “Leave her alone,” he says, voice quiet. I have to strain to make out his words. “Don’t take her food. Don’t touch her. ” He twists his hand and Mark cries out, the bread falling from his free hand.
“Okay,” he whines. “Okay! Let go!”
Bishop removes his hand and backs away from the fence, not taking his eyes off Mark. He finally turns and looks at the girl one last time before heading in my direction. I shift my body to the side of the tree, hoping he’ll pass right by without noticing I’m there. I press my spine into the tree and close my eyes, willing him not to see me.
I hear his footsteps approaching and a hand closes around my arm like a manacle, dragging me forward, away from the fence and into the woods. I gasp and stumble after Bishop, who doesn’t say a word, just keeps hauling me along.
“You’re hurting me,” I say to his back, keeping my voice low. It seems important that Mark not know I’m here. I never want him to look at me or even think about me again.
Bishop lets go instantly, but when he turns to face me, his usually placid eyes blaze, his jaw muscle bunched like a fist. “What are you doing here?” he demands. I’ve never seen him truly angry before. It’s almost a relief to know he’s capable of it, that he isn’t always in perfect control of his own emotions.
I massage my arm. “I followed you. ”
“Yeah, I got that part,” he says. “I figured it out about a block from the house. ”
So much for my stealth. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Bishop takes a step closer to me. “I wanted to see how far you’d come. ”
“Well,” I say, tipping my head up to meet his eyes. I ignore my heartbeat in my throat. “I came all the way. ”
Bishop blows out a breath and, with it, the anger appears to leave him, dissipating on his exhale. “It’s dangerous out here, Ivy. ”