Whisper Read online

  He doesn’t catch my stunned expression; instead, he continues to scan the shelves. While he’s distracted, I tear my eyes from him and look down, reading the title. It’s not one I’ve heard of before.

  “All right, I lied. It’s not a classic per se.” Ward returns to the couch with his own book. “But it should be. You’ll agree by the time you’re done, trust me.”

  I don’t trust him. Not even a little bit.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m not completely stumped when he eases back into the cushions, spreads an arm along the back of the couch — alarmingly close to me — and begins reading his own selection.

  One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes pass as I sit there watching and waiting. But all Ward does is read. I see his eyes flicker from line to line, page to page as he absorbs the words only he can see.

  When we reach the five-minute mark, he uses a finger to keep his place and glances up to catch my perplexed gaze.

  “If you don’t relax and start reading, I’ll have to begin narrating out loud. And fair warning, I do voices. And accents.”

  He clears his throat dramatically and looks down at his book before reciting in a thick Scottish brogue, “‘I don’ wan’a cup’a tea,’ McNally told the old widow. ‘I wan’a see Cormack.’ ‘I told ye,’ she replied. ‘Cormack don’ wan’a see ye. Ye’ll hav’te wait till —’”

  Ward stops butchering what should have been an enchanting accent the moment I snap my book open.

  “You should see your face right now,” he says, grinning. “But come on, I wasn’t that bad.”

  I beg to differ. I feel like my ears are bleeding.

  “Why don’t you put your feet up and get comfortable. We’ve still got a long afternoon ahead of us.”

  He’s right. And I have nothing to lose at this point. If it turns out that this is an elaborate hoax or some new psychological experiment, then that would be disappointing. But if I really do get to spend the next few hours reading, I might as well get comfortable.

  I shrink back into the cushions, once again wedging myself into the farthest corner of the couch. After another moment’s hesitation, I tuck my bare feet up underneath me. I don’t have to look at Ward to sense his approval. Instead, I ignore him and allow my eyes to take in the beauty of the words spread out before me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Chip? Hey, Chip, wake up. It’s almost time to go.”

  Someone gently shakes me until the muffled words penetrate my sleeping mind. I lurch upright, my head only just missing a painful collision with Ward’s face.

  “Easy there, Chip. I’d like to keep my nose unbroken, if you don’t mind.”

  I’m sure I must be looking at him like an idiot, but my sleep-addled mind is struggling to figure out why he’s so close to me.

  It’s been almost two weeks since I started “working” with Ward. My time with him has been the same every day. He’s friendly — too friendly — and I find myself unconsciously warming to him while at the same time straining to keep up my defenses. Somehow he knew right from the beginning about my love of reading, and that’s all we do in our time together. I don’t get it. But I love it. Before Ward, I hadn’t read anything in over two and a half years. Now, in the last twelve days, I’ve read five whole books from cover to cover. I’ve spent over thirty months alone in my own mind, and suddenly I have a cast of characters clamoring for my attention. It’s refreshing. Relaxing.

  Amazing.

  “I’m flattered that you find my company so stimulating.”

  Ward’s dry comment draws my eyes to his.

  “Or is it your reading material that has managed to keep you so energized?”

  I glance down at the paperback still resting on my lap. It’s a favorite of mine, one I read many times in the years before Lengard. So, no, the book didn’t cause me to drift off. But there’s no way I’ll admit to Ward the real reason I was unconscious for the last — I peer up at the clock on the wall — three hours.

  Ward is watching me, so I mask my shock at how much time has passed. I’m not sure why he let me sleep so long. Why he let me sleep at all is also a valid question. But I don’t ask. Because if I did, he’d want to know why I fell asleep to begin with. And I don’t want him to know. It’s none of his business.

  The truth is, Vanik’s experiments have been worse than usual for the past two weeks. Today was especially brutal. I feel as if he shredded my brain in a food processor and put it back together again like a jigsaw puzzle. Only, he didn’t care about joining the pieces in the right places. Instead, he just shoved them all together and hoped to retain some semblance of workability.

  For whatever end, Vanik needs my unique brain to be perfectly healthy and functioning at optimal capacity for his research. He’d never do anything to cause me permanent damage, but that doesn’t mean I’m not harmed in his labs. The damage leaves no physical scars. But his tests still hurt like a son of a —

  “Seriously, Chip, what’s with you today?”

  I press my lips together and look across the room, avoiding his gaze. I hate that Ward chose the name “Chip” for me. I hate it, because I love it.

  “I’ve decided to call you ‘Chip,’” he told me at the end of our first day together. He flashed me a dimpled grin before explaining, “Every time you hear me say it, it’ll be like a chisel is chip, chip, chipping away at your icy exterior. One day I’ll chip enough away that I’ll be able to see the real you. I bet it’ll be well worth the wait.”

  I haven’t been able to get his words out of my head. And sure enough, every time he addresses me by the stupid, awful, horrible … beautiful nickname, I feel myself melting — chipping — little by little.

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Ward runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Fine. But you were shattered yesterday, and today you’re even worse. I want you to get a good night’s sleep so you don’t come back tomorrow looking like death warmed up again. Okay?”

  The appropriate response is to nod, so I do that. What Ward doesn’t realize is that I have been sleeping well at night. It’s the days that are killing me.

  “We’re finished here,” Ward says. “I’ll take you back to your room before you doze off again.”

  He stands and, before I can stop him, reaches for my hand and pulls me up beside him. My fingers spasm in reaction to his skin against mine. Startled, I suck in a breath. It’s been so long since I’ve felt the gentle touch of another human being. The closest I’ve come was my handshake with Falon — though that hardly counts — and my sparring sessions with Enzo, but I always have gloves on for those. I’d forgotten how warm other people are, especially since all I’ve felt is cold for over two and a half years. No, longer than that. Ever since —

  I force the memories away before they can take root, and I focus on the fact that regardless of how long it has been, I’m not cold now. Or my hand isn’t, anyway. That’s why it takes me more time than it should before I yank it away.

  The action seems to startle Ward. He raises his palms in an “easy there” gesture and looks at me with questions in his eyes.

  Questions I refuse to answer.

  He doesn’t press for answers and leads the way to the door. Usually this is when he calls for my guard escorts, but tonight he continues into the hall and heads toward my cell.

  I’ve never been in the hallways without a set of guards, and I’ve never walked anywhere in Lengard without being bound by handcuffs. I revel in the sense of freedom.

  We travel the corridors in silence. I wonder if I offended Ward by snatching my hand from his; then I wonder why that possibility bothers me.

  “This is you, right?” he asks when we reach my numbered door.

  That’s me, all right. Subject Six-Eight-Four.

  I nod, and Ward presses his hand to the touch screen mounted on the wall. The door slides open, and I wait to see what he’ll do next. I am unsure — yet, unsurprised — when he enters before me.

  “This is your
room?” he asks again, staring around the small space.

  I try to see it from his perspective. Four whitewashed walls. A thin foam mattress on a pallet in the corner. A lumpy pillow. A ragged, threadbare blanket. It may not be five-star accommodations, but it provides everything I need to survive.

  I don’t understand the tension I see lining Ward’s features. His green — so green — eyes are blazing, his jaw is clenched impossibly tight and a muscle is pulsing erratically in his cheek. His hands are in fists by his sides as if he’s fighting the urge to hit something. Or someone.

  Nervous, I step back, and the movement returns his hard eyes to me. His gaze sweeps my body, taking in my bare feet, my pillowcase uniform and what I’m sure must be my exhausted features. I realize that probably for the first time, he’s seeing me as I really am. He’s spent the last twelve days trying to befriend me for unknown reasons; perhaps until now he has never truly understood that I’m not a person here at Lengard — I’m a prisoner.

  A million moments pass while he stares at me. I want to look away, but I sense the importance of holding his gaze. He needs to know that I’m aware of his dawning comprehension. And I need to witness the moment when his facade cracks, when he finally morphs into the uncaring evaluator he’s supposed to have been all along.

  I wait and I wait, but that moment never comes.

  “I can’t believe this.”

  His voice is low, and I can tell he’s not talking directly to me.

  “I don’t know what they’re playing at here.”

  He shakes his head and looks in my direction but avoids my eyes for the first time since I met him. His focus is somewhere over my shoulder when he says, “Get some sleep, Chip. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  With that, he strides straight past me and out the door. It slides closed after him, leaving me with nothing but the company of my exponentially increasing list of questions.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After eight hours’ sleep, I feel like a whole new person the next morning. There’s a spring in my step as I’m escorted through the whitewashed hallways and into Dr. Manning’s office. The therapist notices my buoyant spirit and sends a smile my way as he gestures for me to take a seat.

  “You’re looking upbeat today, Jane,” Manning observes.

  His beady black eyes are watching me.

  “Anything you’d like to share?”

  He already knows my answer to that. It’s the same one I’ve given every day for over two and a half years. Nothing but the sound of silence.

  No one can say Manning hasn’t tried his hardest. But some things are best left unsaid. All things, in my case. So while we’ve spent two hours together each morning since I first arrived at Lengard, it can hardly be considered therapy.

  I’m unsure why Manning endures my presence; why Lengard insists that I continue with our sessions when I’m only wasting the doctor’s time, when I’m only adding to his premature baldness. I have nothing better to be doing. But Manning? Surely there is someone else who would benefit from his attention.

  The one thing I do know is that right from the very beginning, Lengard has always been concerned with my mental health. So, I still sit here, day in, day out, the comfort of silence surrounding us.

  Some days Manning asks me questions: What’s my favorite color? Do I like the taste of nutri-shakes? Are the guards treating me with respect? How do I feel my time at Lengard is improving my outlook on life?

  The last one nearly caused me to scoff aloud when he first asked it. But I managed to hold my tongue, just as I always have.

  Today we follow the usual pattern. Manning begins with his questions and waits patiently to see if I’ll respond. When I don’t, he leans back in his chair and stares.

  I found it unnerving at first. Then I realized that was what he hoped for: that I would be provoked into breaking my silence if only to ease my discomfort.

  I know the game now, however. He’s a master, and so am I.

  When our time is over, he doesn’t seem disappointed by our lack of progress — he never does, not outwardly. Like any good therapist, he hides his feelings behind a pleasant expression and a tranquil facade.

  “We’ll pick this up again tomorrow, Jane,” Manning says as the guards arrive to escort me away. He utters the same farewell every day, as if we’ve covered ground and he can’t wait to continue in our next session.

  Part of me wonders if he’s delusional. Another part of me knows he’s just stubborn. But so am I. And I know he’ll never break through my walls, because they’re rock solid.

  As I head back through the corridors, my mind drifts to what happened last night when Ward delivered me to my cell. I’m not supposed to see him again until later this afternoon, so I don’t know what to think when I arrive for my physical training session and find him there, talking with Enzo.

  “Mornin’, JD,” Enzo greets me after the guards release my handcuffs and leave the gym-like room.

  Something I appreciate about Enzo is that he doesn’t call me “Subject Six-Eight-Four” or even “Jane Doe.” Like Ward, he’s given me a nickname, even if it is only the initials from my ID. My traitorous thoughts whisper that it’s not as good as “Chip,” though.

  “You know the drill,” Enzo says. “Clothes are in your locker. You’ve got three minutes to get your ass back out here. Go!”

  I don’t need his instructions, but he gives them every morning regardless. As usual, I nod once and head for the change room, sliding my eyes straight past Ward. I have no idea why he’s here. I just hope he’ll be gone when I return.

  One of the reasons I enjoy my time in physical training is that it’s the only part of the day I don’t have to wear my uniform. Even Lengard recognizes the impracticality of exercising in a pillowcase. For three hours each day I get to enjoy the comfort of gray shorts and a white tank top that cling to my skin, allowing me to move freely. I still don’t get to wear shoes — and I have no idea why that is — but I’ve learned to make do without footwear.

  Other than Enzo, who has watched me grow from a scrawny adolescent into a strong young woman, no one else has seen me in my tight-fitting training clothes. With Ward waiting in the next room, I wonder what others see when they look at me. I wonder what he sees.

  I haven’t looked upon my own reflection since before I first arrived at Lengard. There are no mirrors in the facility; at least, none that I’ve seen. So all I can do is take a deep breath, school my features into nonchalance and head back into the training rooms.

  “Cutting it close today, JD.” Enzo stands with his bulging arms crossed over his chest, his dark skin gleaming under the halogen lights. Jerking his head toward Ward, he adds, “You know Landon, of course.”

  It’s unnatural to hear Ward called by his first name. It makes him sound more … relatable.

  “You’re looking much better today, Chip.”

  It takes a supreme effort of will not to read into Ward’s comment. I’m sure he’s just referring to the fact that I’m not about to drop to the ground anymore, but I’m aware of how fitted my workout clothes are. I can’t even meet his gaze.

  “Chip?” Enzo repeats.

  Ward shrugs. “Potato chips, Enz. She loves them.”

  His lie doesn’t make sense, but Enzo doesn’t seem to notice.

  “I didn’t realize you were allocated additional carbs.” Enzo frowns at me. “I would’ve factored the extra calories into your training schedule.”

  Ward claps him on the shoulder. “Too late now, Enz. And besides, it doesn’t look like she has anything to worry about.”

  I feel his gaze leaving a burning trail along my skin like a tangible force.

  I will not react. I will not react. I will not —

  “Right, let’s get to work.”

  Thank you, Enzo.

  “I’ll meet up with you for lunch, Lando. You need to get out of here before JD spontaneously combusts. If her face turns any redder, she’ll melt the polar ice caps.”


  I want the ground to open beneath me and accept my burning body as a sacrificial offering. But, like most things I want, that doesn’t happen. Instead, Ward’s dimpled smile causes my capricious heart to stutter in my chest.

  “I mean it, Lando,” Enzo adds. “If JD’s been sneaking extra carbs, it’s my job to work them off her. I’ll drag your ass out of here myself if I have to.”

  “I’d like to see you try. Remember what happened the last time you took me on?”

  “Just go.” Enzo pushes Ward’s shoulder — hard.

  “All right, all right, I’m going,” Ward says, his voice ringing with amusement. He turns toward me and adds, “See you in a few hours, Chip. Feel free to come dressed just like that.”

  I have to put an end to this before it spirals out of control.

  I may not have any power at Lengard, but I have managed to retain some semblance of self-respect.

  Enzo reads the intent in my eyes, his own lighting in response.

  “I’ve changed my mind, Lando,” Enzo says, reaching an arm out to stop Ward from leaving. “Why don’t you hang around for a few minutes. See for yourself what JD can do ‘dressed just like that.’”

  Pointing to me, Enzo orders, “You, stretch.” His finger moves to Ward. “You, give us some space.”

  Ward silently obeys Enzo’s command, watching me the whole time. His look is spine-tinglingly uncomfortable, but I switch off my awareness of him and focus on Enzo, who has stepped away to retrieve our boxing gloves.

  I stretch my muscles in preparation for what is ahead. By the time Enzo returns to my side with his gloves already strapped on, I’m feeling confident about my decision to prove myself to Ward. I won’t let him mess with me. At least not outwardly.

  Enzo passes my gloves over, and I look down at the garish hot-pink leather, resisting the urge to smile. I never see anyone at Lengard aside from the guards and the various evaluators during my scheduled sessions. That has always been the case, except for once. A few weeks after I first arrived, I began to feel trapped by the walls of Lengard and the realization that this place would be my prison for the rest of my life — however long or short that might be.