The compound was dark and humming, and every door stood open like an invitation I didn't trust. We moved through corridors I remembered from the other side — the wheelchair, the hands on my elbow, the wolf in the glass booth who tracked my shoulder instead of my face. The booth was empty now. The whole place felt hollowed out, a shell with the light still on. June's cell was open.
The bed was made. The sheets were cold. The camera above the door had gone dark, its red light dead. I stood in the doorway and felt the shape of the room she'd lived in for eleven years — the narrow bed, the gray walls, the window onto a wall three feet away — and my chest did something complicated. "She's not here," I said.
"She's somewhere." Adrian's voice was flat, surgical. "The Director keeps her close. S
