WILLOWGROVE. IT EXISTED. ACCORDING TO THE URBAN legends, it was a mystery camp. According to Dex, it was a death sentence. Whatever it was, it was real. It was real and Serena was caught up in it.
Muffled voices drifted through the door and jolted me out of my shock. I jabbed the touchscreen—once, twice, until it was back the way I had found it—then swung the painting into place.
Faint electronic beeps sounded from the keypad outside as I threw myself around the desk and into my seat. My butt barely had time to touch down before the warden opened the door.
Anger filled her eyes. For a heart-stopping moment, I was certain she knew what I had seen, but she simply said, “Mackenzie, it’s time you headed to class.”
I rose unsteadily and crossed the room. A dozen questions fought to get free, but I held them back. It wasn’t like I could just tell Sinclair I had been snooping around her office and then casually ask what Willowgrove was.
She placed a hand on my arm, palm over the scar Derby had left, as she ushered me into the waiting room. My skin crawled until the touch fell away.
“Elliott, would you mind escorting Mackenzie to the remainder of her morning class?”
“Sure,” said a voice capable of seducing an angel out of her halo, “I can make sure she gets there.”
I knew that voice.
“Thank you, Elliott.” Sinclair withdrew into her office.
I barely registered her exit.
“Whoa. . . .” Familiar hands were on my arms, steadying me as the room spun. Tan uniform. Blond hair. Green eyes. The colors swirled as I struggled to make sense of the person in front of me.
Jason shot me a tight, guarded grin. “Hi, there. I’m the new intern counselor.”
I just blinked.
He shifted his grip so that one hand rested just underneath my elbow and drew me across the room. “They just had a code twelve—it’s not a good time for you to be in here.”
We stepped into the hallway and then hugged the wall as two program coordinators rushed past. “What’s a code twelve?”
“A guard was scratched.”
Jason guided me down halls and around corners. He released my arm as we approached the entrance where a guard—a woman instead of the man who’d been there earlier—was on duty.
She nodded and Jason returned the gesture, exuding strength and experience and looking years older. There was no way anyone would ever guess he was seventeen.
Outside, guards were milling in the courtyard. There was nothing I could do other than follow Jason and bottle my questions—at least temporarily. I glanced up at the sun, trying to gauge the time. Late morning.
I expected Jason to take the path that led to the classrooms and dorms, but he veered right and headed for an older path that hugged a small rise. The pavement was cracked and crumbling; I had to watch my step as we crested the minuscule hill and passed a long one-story brick building that almost looked like row houses.
“Original staff quarters for the sanatorium,” Jason muttered absently, even though I hadn’t asked. “They’re tearing it down next month.”
Sure enough, the windows were boarded up and yellow caution tape had been strung across the doors.
I stopped in the middle of the path. “Jason, what are you doing here?”
He turned and stared. The expression on his face was equal parts frustration and incredulity. “What do you think I’m doing here? I came to get you out.” He turned and started walking again. “Come on. We need to talk.”
I shook my head, even though his back was to me. “Later. Kyle had an accident”—no way did I feel up to telling Jason just what that accident had entailed—“but the warden said he was sent back to class. I need to make sure he’s okay.”
The lawns bordering the path were overgrown with grass that was almost knee high, but cutting across them would be faster than doubling back and taking the path. Trying not to think about rodents and snakes, I stepped off the crumbling pavement and pushed my way through, skirting an abandoned pile of bricks and an old, dilapidated greenhouse.
I heard Jason follow. “Mac . . .”
“Later, okay? I promise.” I couldn’t believe anything Sinclair had said—especially after seeing that list. Until I saw Kyle for myself, I couldn’t be sure he was okay. And until I was sure he was okay, I couldn’t deal with anything else. Not even Jason.
“I’ve got a letter from your father.”
My step faltered and I turned.
Jason crossed the distance between us and wrapped a hand around my arm. Before I could ask what he thought he was doing or why he had a message from Hank, he pulled me toward the greenhouse.
I tried to break his grip, but Jason was the only seventeen-year-old I knew whose house had a live-in physical trainer and a full-sized gym. He might not be a werewolf, but he was still above average in the strength department.
“Kyle’s fine,” he said, letting go of me so he could force open the greenhouse door. “I saw him leave the sanatorium from across the courtyard.”
He managed to get the door open.
Before he could turn or step aside, I shoved him through, slapping my hands against his back so hard that I felt the sting in my palms. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that in the first place instead of just grabbing me?”
Jason stumbled over the threshold. “Might have if you had slowed down for two seconds.”
Of course. Stupid me. I followed him inside, resisting the urge to strangle him.
The greenhouse’s tinted glass walls were caked with decades of grime, and the light that managed to filter through was almost murky.
It felt like we were standing in a dirty fishbowl. I pulled in a deep breath and immediately regretted it. “Ugh. It smells like something died in here.”
Jason glanced at the corner and frowned. “Something did.”
“Oh, ewwww.” I turned back for the door, but he got there before me and blocked my way.
“Sure. Sneaking into a rehabilitation camp? No problem. One dead gopher? She runs for the hills.” He reached into his pocket, then held out a folded sheet of paper. “From your father.”
I ignored the snark and snatched the letter.
An old wooden counter ran the length of one wall. I walked over to it and leaned against the edge as I turned the letter over in my hands. I glanced up. Jason was watching me with an expression I couldn’t read. It almost looked like hunger, but that didn’t make any sense.
“How did you get in here?” I asked, shaking my head. “What happened to you after the raid and”—I stared at his neck and frowned—“where’s your tattoo?”
He started with the last question first. “One of the local guys was a makeup artist in Hollywood. Supposedly it’s the same stuff Johnny Depp uses to hide his ‘Wino Forever’ tattoo on shoots.”
“Local guy as in werewolf or local guy as in Tracker?”
Jason just looked at me and I knew it was the latter. “They got you in.” My throat constricted. “Why would they help you?”
“Money, mostly.” There was a small crate near his feet and Jason stepped on the edge, flipping it over onto its side. “Plus, being the last person to speak to Derby before his death comes with a weird sort of prestige. Thornhill’s hard up for counselors and guards. It wasn’t too difficult for them to get me in.”
I shook my head. “But why would they think you wanted in? Someone doesn’t just wake up one morning and decide they want to see the inside of a rehabilitation camp.”
“Kyle. I told them I followed a wolf from Hemlock—one I thought might have killed Amy. Trackers are big on revenge.”
I stared at him, horror-struck. “You told them Kyle might have killed Amy? KYLE?”
“I needed an excuse. That’s all it was.”