Unravel Me: The Juliette Chronicles Book 2

why I have to remind myself not to whisper. “I read whatever was available. My schools always had little libraries and my parents had some things around the house. And later . . .” I hesitate. “Later, I spent a couple of years in hospitals and psychiatric wards and a juvenile d-detention center.” My face enflames as if on cue, always ready to be ashamed of my past, of who I’ve been and continue to be.
    But it’s strange.
    While one part of me struggles to be so candid, another part of me actually feels comfortable talking to Warner. Safe. Familiar.
    Because he already knows everything about me.
    He knows every detail of my 17 years. He has all of my medical records, knows all about my incidents with the police and the painful relationship I have had with my parents. And now he’s read my notebook, too.
    There’s nothing I could reveal about my history that would surprise him; nothing about what I’ve done would shock or horrify him. I don’t worry that he’ll judge me or run away from me.
    And this realization, perhaps more than anything else, rattles my bones.
    And gives me some sense of relief.
    “There were always books around,” I continue, somehow unable to stop now, eyes glued to the floor. “In the detention center. A lot of them were old and worn and didn’t have covers, so I didn’t always know what they were called or who wrote them. I just read anything I could find. Fairy tales and mysteries and history and poetry. It didn’t matter what it was. I would read it over and over and over again. The books . . . they helped keep me from losing my mind altogether . . .” I trail off, catching myself before I say much more. Horrified as I realize just how much I want to confide in him. In Warner.
    Terrible, terrible Warner who tried to kill Adam and Kenji. Who made me his toy.
    I hate that I should feel safe enough to speak so freely around him. I hate that of all people, Warner is the one person I can be completely honest with. I always feel like I have to protect Adam from me, from the horror story that is my life. I never want to scare him or tell him too much for fear that he’ll change his mind and realize what a mistake he’s made in trusting me; in showing me affection.
    But with Warner there’s nothing to hide.
    I want to see his expression; I want to know what he’s thinking now that I’ve opened up, offered him a personal look at my past, but I can’t make myself face him. So I sit here, frozen, humiliation perched on my shoulders and he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t shift an inch, doesn’t make a single sound. Seconds fly by, swarming the room all at once and I want to swat them all away; I want to catch them and shove them into my pockets just long enough to stop time.
    Finally, he interrupts the silence.
    “I like to read, too,” he says.
    I look up, startled.
    He’s leaned back against the wall, one hand caught in his hair. He runs his fingers through the golden layers just once. Drops his hand. Meets my gaze. His eyes are so, so green.
    “You like to read?” I ask.
    “You’re surprised.”
    “I thought The Reestablishment was going to destroy all of those things. I thought it was illegal.”
    “They are, and it will be,” he says, shifting a little. “Soon, anyway. They’ve destroyed some of it already, actually.” He looks uncomfortable for the first time. “It’s ironic,” he says, “that I only really started reading when the plan was in place to destroy everything. I was assigned to sort through some lists—give my opinion on which things we’d keep, which things we’d get rid of, which things we’d recycle for use in campaigns, in future curriculum, et cetera.”
    “And you think that’s okay?” I ask him. “To destroy what’s left of culture—all the languages—all those texts? Do you agree?”
    He’s playing with my notebook again. “There . . . are many things I’d do differently,” he says, “if I were in charge.” A deep breath. “But a soldier does not always have to agree in order to obey.”
    “What would you do differently?” I ask. “If you were in charge?”
    He laughs. Sighs. Looks at me, smiles at me out of the corner of his eye. “You ask too many questions.”
    “I can’t help it,” I tell him. “You just seem so different now. Everything you say surprises me.”
    “How so?”
    “I don’t know,” I say. “You’re just . . . so calm. A little less crazy.”
    He laughs one of those silent laughs, the