I look up to find Mr. Seth strolling toward me; a leather satchel hangs on his shoulder. Without the classroom setting, his juvenile features scream at me—oversize glasses, patchy stubble covering a round chin, and acne splattered across an oily forehead. His presence brings a wave of shame, and all the anxiety of yesterday washes over me. Even the smells are back—the metallic tang of blood, the rancid odor of vomit, the unclean scent of musk.

“Looking for something?” he asks.

“Oh…no.” I shake my head.

“I hope you feel better today.”

“Uh, yeah. H-how did you know I wasn’t feeling well yesterday?”

Thankfully Mr. Seth takes my confusion for surprise. “Mr. Savior suggested you were probably ill from lunch.”

Shy. Just hearing his name reminds me of that kiss in my dream and makes me feel exposed and embarrassed. I look down. How will I face him now?

Mr. Seth continues, “I’d like to make a request that next time you feel unwell, you excuse yourself and go to the nurse’s office.”

I nod. “Of course.”

Mr. Seth smiles. “Heading to class?”

“Yeah.” My voice is small, breathless—full of disappointment, missing another chance to search for the coin. The wind pulls at my skin and my hair as if to drag me away, toward my purpose, but I resist and follow Mr. Seth to Hollingsworth.

Chapter Ten

Shy and the Web

Instead of lunch with Anora, Natalie and I are called to the Compound. There are a plethora of reasons we might be summoned—all things that happened in the time span of the last twenty-four hours. All things the Order would only know about because Natalie reported them. Or maybe they’re calling us in because of something to do with Roth. It’s hard to predict. I drive with the windows rolled down because the air in the cabin of my Jeep is stretched and suffocating. Plus, the wind keeps conversation at bay for as long as possible, until Natalie takes the liberty of rolling the windows up.

She inhales a few times, the beginning of a sentence poised on the tip of her tongue. She’s working up courage. When the words finally come out, they rasp, as if lodged at the back of her throat.

“Where were you last night?” Natalie asks.

I should probably ease my grip on the steering wheel because my arm is throbbing, but Natalie’s question sets me on edge.

When I don’t answer, she says, “I didn’t tell Elite Cain.” As if that’ll entice me to spill my guts.

It doesn’t.

But I am surprised.

“You used to talk to me.”