Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

‘Sure,’ I say. How hard could it be?

Fred doesn’t believe me. ‘Is there some other reason you want to do this, Lux?’

It had occurred to me that, after the autopsy, no one would notice if not all Samson’s organs made it back in.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Then that’s your answer,’ Fred says. He turns away, shaking his head. The manager of a dark web torture site is horrified by my barbarism.

He seems to take it for granted that I’ll follow his orders.

Dinner is more vegetables. Zucchini, carrots and potatoes from Cedric’s greenhouse, tomatoes and beans from cans. The more I gorge myself, the emptier I feel.

Donnie is bubbling with quiet fury, putting his glass down too hard after every sip of water, and scowling at Cedric for some reason. Cedric, who has finally woken from his opiate-induced stupor, doesn’t seem to notice. He stares at his plate as though he can’t summon the energy to lift his fork. Kyle is acting like nothing happened, although he was never chipper to begin with. Zara is flighty, topping up drinks and trying to start conversations about neutral topics, like the playoffs and plans for Christmas.

It’s like dining alongside the five stages of grief. Kyle represents denial. Donnie is anger. Zara is bargaining. Cedric is depression. Fred, staring wistfully at a blank wall as he chews, resembles acceptance—though I know underneath the calm exterior he’s thinking hard.

A murderer who doesn’t want to be caught usually rambles about their victim. They describe their shock and sadness at his or her death and drop casual hints about other suspects, all the while watching you nervously to see if you believe them. But tonight, no one has even said Samson’s name out loud.

The Guards’ whole business is murder. How can I find a killer hiding among other killers?

After washing the dishes they all go to their rooms, except Fred, who stays up watching CNN. Something’s happening in LA. Police are bludgeoning Black protestors with riot shields, while looters smash storefront windows. Fred takes notes in a little leather-bound journal.

‘What are you up to?’

Fred looks up. ‘Oh, just working on our escape plan.’

‘Has it changed?’ I ask, with no idea what the old plan was. I remember what Cedric said about Emmanuel Goldstein, the fictional anti-mascot, but I still don’t understand.

‘Not in any major way. Just tweaking some of the details.’

I nod as though I know what he means. ‘Well, goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

I take a quick shower, go into my room and lie on the bed. After a while I roll over, then back. I flip the pillow. Bunch the sheets around me, then loosen them again. I can’t sleep.

Tomorrow night, I’m supposed to pick up a prisoner who probably knows Lux, and who will therefore blow my cover. I should be looking for a way to escape. But I can’t leave. Not just because the Guards will start torturing the prisoners again when the new cameras arrive on Friday, but because of Kyle.

The nurse basically told me my sperm would never be used. Even if it was, the chances of me and my progeny ending up at the same house would have to be one in a million. He can’t be my son.

What if he is, though?

Logically, there’s no reason to care. Kyle is a stranger—worse than that, he’s an asshole. So what if he might be related to me? All humans are descended from the same woman, who lived only 150,000 years ago. We all share 99 per cent of our DNA. It shouldn’t matter if Kyle has an extra 0.5 per cent of mine.

But I need to find out for sure. I’ve never been able to accept not knowing something. The compulsion to keep digging at all costs isn’t my worst quality, but it’s up there.

This problem chases itself around my head for a while. Then I find myself in the kitchen, holding a knife.

It’s still night-time. The house is silent. The TV is off, and Fred is gone.

I turn around, disoriented. I’m a sleepwalker, so this happens sometimes. A noise disturbs me and I get out of bed, even though I’m not conscious. If I were in my own house, I’d just walk back to my bedroom, probably without waking up. But here, I’ve momentarily forgotten where my room is.

I look down at the knife. It’s balanced well, the handle exactly as heavy as the blade. A better weapon than the hammer, or the toothbrush shiv. I could slit the Guards’ throats as they sleep.

But I can’t. Kyle might be my son. And someone else in the house murdered Samson, for reasons I don’t understand yet. That person might not be evil enough to eat. An extra twist on my moral dilemma: Is it bad to kill people who kill people who only kill bad people?

I put the knife back in the block and start to walk towards the bedrooms. But I still have no sense of direction, and I find myself in the living room instead. I rub my eyes, annoyed.

A flicker between the curtains.

I’m suddenly wide awake. I creep over to the curtains and peek through. For a second, I see only darkness. Then there it is again: a flash between the trees. Someone is walking around out there with a flashlight.

I grab one of the coats from the stand at random and pull it on. It’s tight. Zara’s, maybe. No time to swap it for another. Ditto for the boots I find beside the front door, which are too big. I leave a hat in the jamb so the door doesn’t lock itself behind me, then I run out into the snow.

I can’t see the light anymore. Desperate, I sprint down the steps, across the gravel