She’s spent every second since proving me right. I haven’t had a glimpse of anything beneath the fierce independence she wears like a second skin until now. Now, with the Commander demanding to be privy to details that I know humiliated her, she turns to me. I don’t intend to let her down.

“I’m afraid I’ve behaved rather poorly toward Miss Adams in the past,” I say, stepping slightly in front of Rachel so the Commander has to either deal with me or be the first to step back. “I can’t blame her for hoping a good man like Oliver would be her father’s choice.”

He studies me with a smirk. “Either Jared didn’t care about this poor behavior of yours, or he never knew about it.”

I nod toward the Commander with the barest pretense of respect before turning to face Rachel. “Shall we go get your things packed?”

Her face is dead white. Even the torchlight refuses to lend her any color. Straightening her spine, she slides her shield of fierce independence back in place and says, “Fine. But only until Dad returns.” Then she walks out of the room.

I move to follow her, but the Commander’s hand snakes out and digs into my shoulder. “And when is Jared planning to return?” he asks.

“I beg your pardon?”

His tone is vicious. “She said ‘until he returns.’ When do you expect his return?” His other hand rests on the hilt of his sword, and his fingers bite into my cloak like he wishes he could draw blood.

“We don’t expect his return,” I say calmly, though my mind is racing. If the Commander really thinks Jared simply died while traveling the Wasteland, why the sharp interest in Rachel’s belief Jared will return? “Rachel only wishes things were different.”

“If you know something more about Jared’s recent failure to return, tell me now.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Don’t even think about lying to me,” the Commander says, malice dripping from every word.

The silence between us is thick with tension, and my thoughts race. The Commander doesn’t think Jared ran into trouble on his last mission. And he certainly doesn’t think Jared’s dead. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I know with terrible certainty that Jared is in more danger from his leader than he could ever be from the Wasteland.

“I’m not lying,” I say.

The Commander leans forward, chopping off his words like he’d spit them in my face if he could. “If I find out otherwise, I’ll punish the girl first. You, of all people, should understand that.”

The sudden memory of my mother’s broken body lying lifeless at the Commander’s feet makes it nearly impossible to say, “I understand.”

He releases my shoulder slowly, and I turn to leave the room, keeping my head held high. My back straight. My face schooled into an expressionless mask as if the twin fuels of panic and anger haven’t been ignited deep where the Commander never thinks to look.

Jared’s in trouble. I have to come up with a solution—something I can use to track him down before the Commander does. And I have to do it before the Commander decides we know more than we’re telling. As I stride out of the compound, following Oliver and Rachel toward the waiting wagons, I begin to plan.

CHAPTER THREE

RACHEL

Oliver and I take a wagon to my house while Logan decides to walk the considerable distance from the compound to his little cottage in the southwest corner of town. I imagine he wants time to assess the problem of being my Protector and come up with a plan for how to handle it.

Except there is no plan that will make living under the same roof as Logan easy to bear. And there is no plan that will make me accept having Dad declared dead. This isn’t one of Logan’s precious piles of wire and gears. He can’t fix this.

We enter my house, greeted by the lingering aroma of the sticky buns Oliver made for breakfast. I guess he’ll move back to his own house now, and this little yellow rectangle with its creaking floors and generous back porch will be home to no one at all.

I stand in the front room, wishing desperately I could overturn Logan’s edict and stay right here.

“Rachel-girl, it’s full-on dark. If we don’t leave soon, we won’t make it out to Logan’s tonight.”

“Then we’ll stay here.”

“We can’t.” Oliver brushes a hand against my arm and nods toward the front window. I look and find two guards standing on our front lawn, waiting at the edges of the street torch’s flickering light. “I guess the Commander had some doubts about you fulfilling your father’s will.”

I turn away from the window—and the proof that I have no power to change my situation—and say, “Let me take a minute to say good-bye.”

“I’ll put your clothes into a trunk while you do.”

I wander through the house, touching pieces of my childhood and letting the memories swallow me whole.

The doorway where Dad gouged out a notch and carved in the date every year on my birthday to track my growth.

The sparring room with its racks of weapons where Dad taught me how to defend myself.

The kitchen table where Dad and I joked about his terrible cooking. I run my fingers across the heavy slab of wood. This is also the table where Logan first became a part of our lives, back when he was a skinny, dirty boy with hungry eyes hiding behind Oliver’s cloak. I’d watched him as the years passed. Watched him soak up knowledge and skill like a dry blanket left out in a rain storm until eventually he turned himself into the kind of man who could command Dad’s respect. And I’d foolishly thought myself in love with him.