Chapter 2

I didn't dare use my phone to pay. I paid cash.

Dad's friend worked in IT. Pulling my transaction records would be nothing to him.

West Street was in the Old Town, the alleys running every which way.

Nothing around but houses decades old, and hardly any cameras.

I slipped down a narrow lane and found a family-run motel tucked deep inside.

The owner was a middle-aged woman, sitting behind the counter cracking sunflower seeds.

"Staying? ID. Sign in."

"Forgot to bring it."

I slapped two hundred dollars on the counter.

"Just one night. I'll be gone by dawn."

She looked me over for a few seconds.

Then took the money and tossed me a key.

"Last room on the third floor. Don't cause trouble."

"And we get all kinds in here. Girl your age shouldn't go out at night."

I took the key and turned to head up.

The room was tiny, the damp hitting me the second I walked in.

I went to the window and lifted a corner of the curtain.

It looked straight out onto the alley behind.

This room really wasn't bad.

I bolted the door.

Wedged the chair against it, and only then let myself slide down to the floor with my back against it.

The moment I relaxed, the pain in my ankle came throbbing up in waves.

I dug out the antiseptic, tipped some onto a tissue, and pressed it to my ankle.

It hurt so much I sucked in a sharp breath.

And then I laughed.

Good. Let it hurt.

The pain meant this wasn't a dream.

The pain proved I was still alive, still here.

I stared at the peeling paint on the wall, my mind blank.

Details from all those years kept surfacing.

Ever since grade school, I'd gone to the research institute every month for a checkup, three full vials of blood drawn each time.

Mom said, "Zoe's not strong. Regular checkups just put my mind at ease."

In middle school, the school held a sports day. Everyone had to take part.

I signed up for the eight hundred meters.

Mom made a special trip to talk to my teacher, said my heart was weak, that I couldn't do anything strenuous.

Back then I sulked about it for the longest time.

A few days ago I fell off my bike and scraped my knee.

Dad lost his temper at me for the first time, dragged me to the hospital, disinfected it three times over.

I'd thought then it was because he cared.

Only now do I understand.

He was afraid something would go wrong with his sample.

Eighteen years of careful raising, and not so much as a cut allowed.

All for today.

To put me on a plane, ship me off to some nameless lab overseas.

No one the wiser.

As dawn came close, I couldn't hold out any longer and drifted off into a hazy sleep.

Voices downstairs woke me.

I was instantly alert. I crept to the door and pressed my ear against it.

It was a man's voice, a stranger's.

"Eighteen, on the short side, long hair, white hoodie, black backpack. Seen her?"

The owner's voice was lazy.

"Nope. Small place like this, only regulars stay here."

The man said, "Twenty thousand if you find her. She's my daughter. Threw a fit and ran off. She's got depression, and I'm scared something'll happen to her."

My heart clenched hard.

Depression.

That was the label they'd pinned on me.

So even if they found me, no one would believe me when I begged for help.

Twenty thousand.

I really couldn't decide whether to be impressed they'd spend that much, or insulted that my life came so cheap.

Downstairs went quiet for a few seconds.

Then the owner's voice: "Huh. Now that you mention it, there was a girl who came by last night..."

The blood went cold all through me.

I spun around and bolted for the window.

Shoved it open. The alley was right below.

The third floor wasn't that high, and there was junk piled underneath.

I climbed onto the sill and jumped.

I dropped into a crouch on landing, but the jolt still shot pain through my ankle.

I didn't dare stop. I scrambled up and ran deeper into the alley.

Behind me came the sound of the door being kicked in, and the man shouting, "She ran! There! After her!"