Soulprint by Megan Miranda

calls me sweetheart makes me nervous. The fact that I am essentially locked in a room with him makes me nervous.
    The presence of the rope and the wire makes me nervous.
    The fact that I cannot orient myself, that I am not at an axis, that the world is moving and existing and changing without me at the center makes me feel small and insignificant and lost, and I recite the facts in my head to keep calm:
There were thirty-two guards on the island, and I escaped
.
    Here, there are only three. There are only three. There are only three
…
    â€œCan’t say I’m a fan of this place,” Casey says, tossing the bag of clothes on the couch beside Cameron.
    â€œIt’s temporary,” Dominic says.
Temporary
. That can mean nearly anything. Days, months, years. Now that we know that the soul doesn’t die, it could also mean a lifetime.
    June’s hiding was “temporary,” too. That’s what they call it on that one documentary. A year and a half, and then she came out and was killed.
    Even now, nobody knows how June and Liam got in the database. Rumor has it that after they got inside, they set up a secondary shadow-database, one that copies directly from the original source, so they could have unlimited access to it at all times. Somewhere only June and Liam knew. That’s what people are worried about now. That I might somehow know how to find it again. That I might continue where June left off.
    â€œOkay,” Cameron says, “then let’s get on with it.”
    Dominic holds his arm out, gesturing toward the back room.
    Casey skips ahead into the back room and says, “Give me ten minutes.”
    Dominic nods and heads for the second closed door. He sends Cameron a look. “Watch her,” he says.
    I catch the tail end of Cameron’s eye roll and find myself involuntarily smiling at him. He looks away first.
    Well, I do have ten minutes. I open the kitchen drawers, one at a time, but they’re empty. Though the drawers are old and removable, and I bet I could pry a nail or two loose if I had a few minutes to myself. I slam them closed and run my fingers along the mesh wiring, pulling at it to see if it gives.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing?” Cameron asks.
    â€œLooking around,” I say, not pausing.
    I check under the brown couch, but the wooden legs seem to be firmly attached.
    â€œStop,” Cameron says.
    â€œWhy?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer. He of all people should understand after helping me escape. I will not be slow and malleable and content. I will not wait for someone to come. This time, I will be ready by myself. I’m used to people watching me. What’s he going to say?
Alina was looking under the couch
? So what. It would be stupid if I didn’t. It would be a waste of time for us to stand here staring at each other, pretending like I am not still being held against my will.
    There are four lantern-shaped lamps that I’m assumingare battery powered. Inside each is a tiny lightbulb. I wonder if they will break. When they’re on, I wonder if they will burn. I try to pry the top off one, but it’s glued on pretty tightly. I look for anything that will shatter into shards that I can store in the pockets of my pants until someone opens the front door.
    They are not careful enough.
    Everything is a weapon.
    I will not stay here long.
    â€œStop,” he says again, but lower. “Before he comes out.”
    My eyes lock with his, and I wonder, not for the first time, what he’s doing here. I place the lantern back on the counter, wondering just how far I can push him, trust him. “Just …,” I say, “one more thing.”
    I take the rope off the counter, and Cameron comes closer, his hands held out like he must stop me from something, but he’s not sure what. Like I might use it on him. I’m not stronger than he is, I know I’m not. But still, he comes closer as I walk toward