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Thirty-Eight : Reunions

Of course, of course. Wherever I go, Corin goes. Wherever Corin goes, Frenchwood finds. He is a human tracking device. Our escape was doomed from the start. If only we had had the time to stop, and think... but in the frenzy of the Authority Bureau's arrival, our senses were clouded by desperation and panic. It hits me like a knife to the guts. My mom did not have to die. The knife twists - her sacrifice was utterly pointless.

As we stumble out into Antalia's garden, drenched by weak daylight, my father greets us with a formal nod. His slim-fit tailored suit is what he considers 'casual wear' - he stands tall and rigid beside the sleek metal of the copter, hands clasped at his front. The shine of his dark hair, combed to one side, mirrors the metal of the machine.

"Benna. It's good to see you again."

Seriously, he sounds like he is greeting a business associate. It's nearly impossible to resist rolling my eyes. But we have never been close. All he has done, despite claiming he wanted to be a better father, is sever the tie between us completely.

I don't reply to the greeting. Instead, I march over the damp lawn and clamber into the waiting copter. Running is pointless, so I will go with him. But I will do it on my own terms. I will not have him tell me what to do anymore. Corin is quick on my heels, still tugging on his boots, with a wide-eyed Antalia and Glyn following - nudged by the narrow tip of an Authority Bureau officer's gun. Glyn's obedience surprises me. But I suppose when there's a deadly weapon threatening to blow your insides outside... you're more inclined to do as you're told. The four of us, and then the officer - still toting his gun - arrange ourselves on the fabric bench seating inside. 

For a moment, my father remains poised outside the open door of the copter's belly, a slightly baffled expression marring his features. Then as if a reset button has been pushed, he straightens up, smoothes his crimson tie, and joins us. His thumb hovers over the door control, but he doesn't scan it.

"Where is Charla?" He asks. "I have been informed she wasn't with yesterday's lot."

"Yesterday's "lot"?" I make air quotes with my fingers. "You sound like you're discussing cargo."

"Benna..." His tone deepens, the way he used to warn me I was venturing into misbehaviour, when I was a child. I turn away, staring at the fields out the window. Does he even deserve to know? Yes, of course he does. Punishment for sending me to Dr. Frenchwood. For sending me to the refuge. For letting me think I had free will, when really, I was playing right into their hands.

"She's dead." I state, as casually as I can manage. My gaze leaves the wheat outside, flicking to his face. He's suddenly as washed out as the sun - pale and sickly. He blinks at me. His lips part slightly, falling open as if to speak but shock has sucked the words away. Corin's fingers squeeze mine. I hadn't even realised we were holding hands.

"How?"

I turn my gaze back to the window, inhaling the sweet morning breeze drifting through the still-open door. Corin answers for me, with more respect than I've been able to muster my whole life.

"If I may speak - she didn't survive our escape from the refuge, President Denman."

"You don't need to be so polite," I tell Corin. My tone is brittle. "He's just my father."

"He is not just your father - he's the president. I'm not giving cheek to the president!"

"You're a wise young man," My father says. He frowns, his dark eyes clouding over. "I gave express instructions that no one was to be harmed." He seems to be muttering to himself, his voice a faint whisper. "Oh, Charla." His thumb runs across the scanner and the door skims shut, sealing us in.