“Does it really matter so much?”
“They’re desperate to kill you. Don’t you want to know why? If you’ve truly had no interaction with the Albanian mob growing up and don’t know anything that could hurt them, then it means they want to kill you because of who you are. You represent something…a threat. Or maybe you have some sort of power or possession you don’t know about, and they mean to prevent you from seizing it. Maybe you’re important to somebody they want to hurt. Maybe you’re a relative of an enemy. You have a story, Kiro. Don’t you want to know it?”
“My story,” I spit. “It was because of my story that the reporters mobbed the hospital when I was first taken. It was because of my story that the professor kept me in a cage. Because of my story they’re trying to kill me. I want nothing to do with my story.”
“What the professor did, what those reporters did, what happened to you at Fancher—all of that was wrong. It disgusts and offends me.”
Her emotion feels real.
“But that’s not an argument for ignorance,” she continues. “If you don’t know your own story, it controls you. The ignorance of your story is hurting us.”
Us. I tell myself not to trust it.
I thought the professor was on my side. I wanted to believe it so badly I let him trick me.
I close my eyes, so tired of being alone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ann
He says nothingfor miles; he just gazes out at the passing forest land. We’re entering serious wilderness now. The path will be dirt in about fifteen miles, according to the maps.
He seems so troubled. So sad.
He sets the little wolf keychain on the dashboard. “They’ll be in their winter place by now.”
“They have different places?”
“Nearer to civilization as winter nears.”
“And they’ll remember you?”
“They’re family.”
My gut twists. Going home to his family. That’s what my editor will want images of. Kiro approaching the wolf’s den or whatever it is for the first time would be like gold to Murray Moliter. Nobody could touch that.
I look away from him and his little keychain, feeling utterly ill, and grateful I have the driving to concentrate on. I don’t want him to see my eyes. I feel like he can read me sometimes. Like he doesn’t trust me sometimes.
I should tell him what I am, what my plan is.
But if he knew I was a reporter, he’d hate me. I’d be like all the rest of the people who used him.
The headlights make splotches of light on the dirt grooves ahead of us. The road is just two tire grooves now. It’s not even a road anymore.
He stiffens. “There’ll be a chance to go left up ahead. Take it.”
“Okay.” Sure enough, there’s a fork. I take the left. We’re getting deep into the parkland now.
Kiro takes over the wheel soon after, and we drive through the night. It’s slow going—we’re on the uncleared back trails, and this truck isn’t the best for that.
Sleep starts to dull and disorganize my mind. I close my eyes.
The next thing I know, I’m stretched out alone in the front seat alone. It’s 3 a.m., judging from the dashboard clock. I sit up and rub my eyes. He’s out in front of the truck, clearing branches by the light of the headlights.
Nobody’s passed through here in a vehicle for months, maybe even years.
I reinsert my SIM card and check my phone. Still have reception. A miracle. There are texts from my editor loving the picture I sent.