I nod and back up as she scurries in and closes the door. “I’m not supposed to help, but Spinner Grace won’t notice.” She swallows hard. “I hope.”
“The Head Spinner’s name is Grace?”
She shrugs. “The Prophet assigns our names.” Kneeling, she leans over the body. “Let’s get him into the tub. We can strip him there and wash him off.”
I want to mention that a quarter of his head is gone, that gore is everywhere, that there was no way we could ever clean the blood off him. Or me. Instead I join her on the floor, my hands still shaking, my body going cold, and help her drag his still-warm corpse to the bathroom. His blood oozes onto the white tiles, leaving a slippery trail of human carnage.
“You seem used to dealing with bodies.” I can barely understand myself, and my throat makes an ugly clicking noise as I speak.
She freezes for only a second, then continues working without reply. How many deaths had she seen at this place? Had she seen Georgia’s? The burning need to know almost overcomes my caution, but I keep my lips firmly shut. She won’t tell me anything. Not until I have more time to work on her.
“On three.” She grips one of his arms and motions for me to take the other. “One, two, three.”
I lift as hard as I can. The body flumps into the tub, marring the surface and the wall with more garish crimson. My stomach churns again, and even Chastity seems to pale.
She wipes her hands on one of the towels, then gives me a steady look. “Now we need to remove his clothes.”
I cringe.
“We can do this.” She reaches over and squeezes my wrist. “We have to.”
“Okay.” I lean over the tub and grab the hem of his t-shirt. The Confederate flag across the front has become more of a modern art piece, red seeping through the white parts. With a yank, I get it up to his chest, his pale skin the sickly shade of a fish’s belly.
“I’ve got his arms.” She nods, encouraging me to keep working.
After an hour of labor, we sit back and stare at the man in the tub. He’s naked, turning blue, but clean except for the wounds in his head and back. They aren’t bleeding anymore, but if we move him, little runnels of red still ooze out.
“This is as good as we can get him.” She stands and puts her hands on her hips, stretching her back and popping her neck. “Let’s get him onto the towels. Then you can shower off while I clean the room.”
Before I know it’s happening, I feel tears on my cheeks. Some dam suddenly breaks inside me. I’m already coming apart, and I’ve only been in this hell for two days.
Her eyes soften, and she pulls me into her arms. “You survived. Shhh, now. Shh. You survived. That’s what’s important. You’re alive. He’s dead. He’ll never hurt you or anyone else again.” She strokes down my back, slow and steady, as I sob on her shoulder.
“Am I in bad trouble?” I whisper.
“You?” She shakes her head. “No. Protector Adam, though, I’m pretty sure there’ll be consequences.”
I can’t think about him right now. About what he did or his reasons for doing it. He threatened me not four hours ago. Then he protected me. I thought I knew what I was getting into when I volunteered for the Cloister.
I don’t understand. My gorge rises again, and I throw myself away from Chastity and heave the entire contents of my stomach into the toilet.
I was already afraid when I knew what was coming next.
Now that I’m in the dark? I’m terrified.
Chapter 8
Delilah
Five years ago
“This makes me look fat, doesn’t it?” Georgia twirls in a blue dress, the fabric flowing out around her knees in an arc of sky.
“No.” I lay on her bed, my hands propping up my chin and my feet in the air. “You look like some glam queen.”
“Oh, stop.” She waves a hand at me, then reconsiders. “No, go on. Tell me how cute I am.”
“You’re the worst.” I lay my head down and stare out the second-floor window of her bedroom. Everything is so soft here—the bedspread, the carpet, the voices of her parents as they go about their weekend in the house below. Nothing like my home.
“I would kill for your platinum hair, you know?” She sits next to me and runs her fingers through my long strands.
A lot of people compliment my hair. But Georgia hits on the exact problem with what she doesn’t say. She wants my hair, sure. But she doesn’t want the pale skin and grey eyes that come with it. Whereas Georgia is all blonde curls, tan skin, and bright blue eyes, I’m the ghost of the girl I’m supposed to be. That’s how I think of myself, as if I’m a black and white spirit while my real self is someone technicolor, like Dorothy over the rainbow.