A few days later, with my arm nearly healed, I was restless from the long bed rest. Perrin and Janie proposed a picnic, so we went with Papa to the walnut tree, far from the road, laid out a tablecloth and set out a loaf of bread and a ring of bologna. We prepared our plates and ate quietly, half-listening for what we were all worried about: an arriving car in search of me.
It was Papa who brought up a solution. “I believe it’s best if Isla stays in the barn from this point onward,” he said. “Eventually I’ll have to find a way to have her declared dead so there will be no more concern of her capture.” He exchanged a glance with Perrin.
Dead? I was already dead to who and what I’d been before. I explained to Papa that Staris had promised to tell the CREIA that he’d killed me, but Papa sai
