Girls with Razor Hearts (Girls with Sharp Sticks #2) - Suzanne Young Page 0,2

beautiful in a sterile, uncomfortable way.

“I’m scared,” Brynn says quietly. “What if Imogene’s not here? What if her husband is?”

We all stare at the house. It’s four in the morning, but a small light is on in the kitchen. The blinds are down, but open just enough for me to see a blond-headed figure sitting at the table.

“I think that’s her,” I whisper, pointing her out to the others.

“Why is she up this late?” Jackson asks. “Or early, I guess.”

“I’m not sure,” I say, sensing that something is off. I scan the property, surprised there are no guards, no bars on the windows. She’s not a prisoner. That should be a good sign.

“I think I’ll wait out here,” Quentin says. “Keep an eye on things.”

“I’ll wait with you,” Annalise offers. When I turn to her, she waves her hand. “My ears are still ringing,” she adds. Although the words come out with ease, there’s a heaviness in Annalise’s voice.

She was murdered tonight, and then brought back to life by Leandra Petrov—the wife of the headmaster at Innovations Academy. Annalise was dead, and I suspect the pain of that goes beyond ringing ears. She settles back in the seat as the other girls and I get out of the car.

I wrap my arm around Jackson’s waist and help him limp toward the house. His leg is possibly broken; he injured himself when he foolishly climbed the academy fence. He’s pretending it doesn’t hurt, but he flashes his teeth in pain every time he puts weight on his leg.

We pause at the stairs of the front porch and check the area. Jackson leans against the railing as Sydney comes to talk to me. She reaches to hold my arm, and I put my hand over hers, immediately comforted by her touch.

We’re in danger. Leandra told us the professors and her husband would never stop looking for us. We need to get somewhere safe, but we’re tired and hurt; we’re devastated and confused. We’re angry. But we need a minute to think.

Jackson turns to us. “I should go to the door alone,” he says.

Marcella laughs. “We don’t need you to save us,” she tells him. “Besides, Imogene will know to trust us.”

“I’m not trying to save you,” Jackson says. “You’re perfectly capable of knocking on a door. What I’m suggesting is you let me do it because I’m not soaked in blood and immediately recognizable as an escaped girl. What if her husband answers?”

Marcella tilts her head, thinking it over. “Yeah, okay,” she says, and steps aside.

We all get onto the porch, and I leave Jackson at the door as the girls and I stand off to the side. Jackson knocks softly, favoring his uninjured leg. I watch him as he waits there. He runs his hand through his dark hair, haphazardly trying to brush it aside, but it’s still a mess. He’s a mess. But he’s in markedly better shape than any of us. He doesn’t have literal blood on his hands from someone he murdered.

At the thought, I open and close my palm, feeling the stickiness left there from Guardian Bose’s blood, dried but still tacky. I’m coated in it; I’m coated in guilt.

The light clicks on above us on the porch, and the girls and I shift farther into the shadows. The door opens a sliver, but I can’t see who’s behind it. Jackson gulps audibly.

“Hi, uh …” His voice cracks. “I’m looking for Imogene. Are you Imogene?”

“He is not smooth,” Marcella points out. I put my finger to my lips to tell her to be quiet.

“Who are you and what do you want?” The voice is distinctly Imogene’s. I recognize it on a level I wasn’t expecting, something connecting and visceral. Without thinking, I step around the corner and into the light. The door opens wider.

The woman standing there is impossibly thin, her jaw muscles protruding, her eyes sunken in. Although I knew her voice, it takes me a moment to recognize the woman—the girl—and my hands start to tremble.

Imogene’s eyes are ringed with dark circles, like she’s vitamin deficient. Sleep-deprived. She’s wrapped in a fluffy white robe, but as she lifts a wineglass to her lips, I see that her hands are stained a deep pink. She runs her eyes down my clothing, pausing to examine the blood. There is a ghost of a smile on her lips before she opens the door completely.

“I used to dream of seeing the girls again,” she says. “Figures it would be