When the girl finally emerges, she is petite but muscular, wearing boyfriend jeans and a snug white tank top that sets off her crimson lace bra and her olive skin. Her black hair is held up in a high, thick ponytail, and she has piercings that run the length of one ear. Near her collarbone, she has the same game board tattoo.

“Riel, you didn’t have to come out here,” the blond guy growls at her. “I’m handling it.”

“Handling it,” she snorts again, like that’s the most absurd thing she’s ever heard. “And thanks for telling her my name, asshole. Well done.”

The blond guy frowns and looks down.

When Riel turns in my direction, her eyes search my face so intensely that it feels like she’s climbed inside me and is busy inspecting my internal organs. Contempt, that’s what I read when she’s done. But it is so complete that it seems weirdly suspect. Most people usually feel more than one thing at any given time.

“Who are you?” she asks finally. Her eyebrows bunch sharply when I stay silent. That’s when she glances up and notices my hair—which I can only imagine now looks full-on insane. “What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you talking?” She’s still pointing at me when she turns back to the blond guy. “Does she not talk?”

“She’s the one from the camp,” he says, like this alone explains everything. And in a way I suppose it does. “Her dad’s the scientist. You know, she’s the ‘Outlier.’” He hooks quotes in the air as he shakes his head. “I told you not to come out here.”

Of course they’ve got opinions about me. Level99 were the ones combing through all our personal data, heading off my dad’s texts. They might know more about me than I know about myself.

“Nothing Quentin told you was true,” I begin. But when Riel spins around, her wide-eyed fury knocks the wind out of me. “I just mean whatever he told you about what he was doing up at that camp. It wasn’t what he said.”

Riel starts to laugh, then bats her eyelashes viciously. “No. Fucking. Way.” Like I’m the idiot. But however angry she is at me, she is even angrier at Quentin. I can feel that much. “What was the giveaway for you? Your dead friend or the eleven people somebody shot?”

“Twelve,” I say, trying not to flinch. It’s a small thing, but I don’t like the idea that she’s getting the number of people they found wrong. “Twelve people were shot.”

“Sure, if you count your friend as one of them,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I said shot, not dead. And, personally, I wouldn’t want to group her with the rest of those psychos.”