Chosen Ones (27 page)

“A lawyer kills people?”

“Are you serious?” This so wasn’t happening. Dad wasn’t part of some super-secret conspiracy theory. He was a stick-up-the-ass control freak workaholic. With weird hours. And, for some reason, a gun. Not a killer.

Kale’s face remained blank.

“Of course they don’t kill people! They put the bad guys away, get rid of ’em so they can’t hurt anyone.” Not the most accurate description, but the simplest I could come up with.

“No, that’s definitely not what your father does. That’s what
I
do. The Denazen Corporation uses me to punish those who have done wrong. I’m a Six. Does that make
me
a lawyer?”

Ugh. So much for simple. “What the hell is a Six?”

“It’s what we’re called.”

O-kaay. “And punish those who’ve done wrong? Who says what’s right and wrong?”

“Denazen, of course.” He frowned and turned away. “And I belong to them.”

“Where the hell are your parents?”

Voice barely a whisper, he said, “I don’t have any parents.”

“You’re a human being, not a weapon. You don’t
belong
to anyone,” I hissed. “And of course you have parents, even if you don’t know where they are.”

Fuming, I ripped the little leather cardholder from my back pocket and tugged out a picture. My mom. I’d found it years ago in Dad’s bottom desk drawer. I’d only known who she was because of her name written on the back in scrawling blue ink. Dad refused to talk about her—he told me her name, gave me a brief, watery description—and that was it. As I got older, I’d started looking more and more like the woman in the picture, which was probably why he hated me. I’d catch him watching me once in awhile. Like he might have been imagining it was her sitting there, and not me. Like he wished it was her instead of me. It made sense. It was my fault he’d lost her, after all. She’d died having me. Sometimes I hated myself, too.

“My mom is gone—that doesn’t mean I don’t have one.” I shook the photo at him.

Kale closed the gap between us and took the picture from my hands. He purposefully let his fingers brush my wrist, giving a quick smile. “This is your mother?”

I nodded.

“You don’t visit her?”

“I can’t
visit
her, she’s dead.”

“She’s not dead. She lives at the complex with me.” He wandered away, picture still in his hands, and picked up a pair of Curd’s worn boots. Leaning back against the wall, he kicked off my Vans and slipped on the boots. The sneakers fell to the floor with a heavy thud.

The world stopped. The air, the four walls, everything, it all fell away. “What?”

He held up the picture. “This is Sue.”

[End of Sample]