Girls with Razor Hearts (Girls with Sharp Sticks #2) - Suzanne Young Page 0,3
this day.” Imogene’s hair is in a messy ponytail, the ends of her damp blond hair a reddish color.
Marcella and I exchange a worried look as she and the other girls come out from the shadows. Imogene turns to walk inside, barefoot on a gray slate floor, and we follow her. Despite the impressive size of the entry, the house is stark and made entirely of concrete and hard surfaces.
As Marcella, Sydney, and Brynn come inside with me, Jackson hangs by the door. When I turn to him, he nods that I should go ahead. He has a strange expression, and I suddenly realize that he’s scared of Imogene. She’s like us; she’s a machine. And maybe he thinks she’s dangerous—that we’re all dangerous. It hurts my feelings, but I acknowledge his ask and turn away as he heads back to the car.
“I thought there’d be more of you,” Imogene says, going to the kitchen counter to refill her glass of wine from a green bottle. “In my dreams there were more of us.”
“Do you know why we’re here?” Marcella asks, studying her. “Do you know the truth about us? About the academy?”
Imogene takes a moment to examine each of us, pausing to study the bruises on Sydney’s neck and the blood on our clothes.
“What I know,” she starts, “is that my boarding school sold me to an evil man. I realized he would eventually kill me. And after I went to Anton about it and was turned away, I was contacted by Leandra Petrov.” Imogene takes a big gulp of wine and sets it down. “Leandra told me what we are. Which is, I’m assuming, why you’re here. You want to know more about our programming.”
“Do you know about our programming?” I ask. “Because we just found out tonight. And—”
Imogene holds up her hand to stop me. “I’ve only known for a few days,” Imogene says. “Just long enough.”
“Long enough for what?” Sydney asks. Just then, I notice Brynn glancing around, her nostrils flaring. It’s then that I smell it too. Something floral and thick, but under that is an acrid scent, something old or rotten.
“For me to make things right,” Imogene says. “Considering the state of you, I’m guessing you need a place to hide. You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you need to.” She glances at the door. “But not the boy.”
I lower my eyes, wondering if I can leave Jackson behind.
“Thank you, Imogene,” Marcella says. She smiles at her as Brynn wanders into the living room, staring at the black-tiled fireplace. Imogene watches her curiously before turning back to us. She leans her elbows on the counter, and when she does, her sleeve falls down her arm and we see the bruises wrapping her wrists like bracelets.
Before we can ask if she’s okay, Imogene motions to Sydney’s neck. “Are you in any pain?” she asks.
Sydney shakes her head no, although I’m sure she’s lying. I’m in a lot of pain. So much, in fact, it’s a constant struggle to keep my thoughts straight.
“If you change your mind,” Imogene says, “I can help. My husband kept an emergency repair kit in his closet.” She bares her teeth. “You know, for my accidents.”
There’s a viciousness to her tone that is entirely expected, but also terrifying. Cruelty from investors isn’t unusual; they don’t see us as human.
But they underestimated us. They don’t get to decide our fate. Not anymore.
Our reaction to their violence is what the girls and I are trying to weigh out now. You don’t beat a monster by becoming one yourself.
“Where … is your husband?” I ask. “Will he be home soon?”
“No,” Imogene says, grabbing her wine. “He left me finally. He didn’t like my sharp tongue.”
“And what about Leandra?” Marcella asks. “Why did she tell you the truth? Did you read the poems?”
Imogene smiles. “Oh, the poems,” she says, seeming delighted that we have that in common. “They were brilliant, weren’t they?”
“Violent,” Brynn corrects from the living room, still examining the fireplace.
“Well, yes,” Imogene says, sipping from her wine. “That was the brilliant part.” She smiles at me, but I’m unsettled. Something is … off about her. She’s not like us. At least, not in the same way.
“What happened after you read the poems?” I ask.
“I stopped taking the pills my husband was feeding me,” she says. “And then … well, then I started making decisions for myself. It’s amazing what you discover when you start answering your own questions.”