Sarah Harian - The Wicked We Have Done

Soon, the silence is so thick in the living room, so hot and itchy and unbearable, that I have to say something.

“Do you think Stella is telling the truth?” My voice is so quiet that I’m not even sure Tanner heard until he breaks from Blaise.

“Her trial suggests otherwise.” He pushes his glasses up with his forefinger.

I stare at him blankly.

“Please tell me that you know of her trial.”

I glance around at a lifeless Blaise, at Erity, caught up in a book and not paying us an ounce of attention, and then at Gordon and Salem, both of whom are invested in a certain kitchen cupboard.

“I’ve kind of been in jail.”

“We all have kind of been in jail . I’m pretty sure I’ve kind of been in jail longer than you have.”

I lean back in my chair. “Does that mean you’ve studied up on us?”

“All of you, but not as thoroughly as I’ve studied the Compass Room itself.” He narrows his eyes.

“What?” I say defensively. “No, I didn’t research Compass Rooms after my sentence. Nor did I go out of my way to research any of you.” I hug my torso, as if that will make the next words out of my mouth any more comforting. “It’s pointless research if you’re going to die anyway.”

“I guess if that’s the way you see it.” He shakes the bangs away from his face. “Or your plan all along was to harass another criminal to explain everything to you.”

I scoff. “Looks like you’ve figured me out.”

“To answer your question, Stella is one of the harder reads. Evidence of her crime is pretty inarguable. The fire was started by a cigarette and a photograph. She was outside the house sobbing when the fire department arrived, and she hadn’t called 911. Nicotine residue was found on her fingers.”

“Yet she believes she’s going to survive this.”

“Yeah, but you have to remember, just because you’re guilty doesn’t mean the Compass Room is going to kill you.”

“How could she have possibly believed her intentions were good?”

Tanner shrugs. “Could have been an accident. That’s what her lawyers were trying to prove in court.”

Damn . . . this kid has even done his research on our trials.

I nod toward Gordon. He and Salem have stumbled upon the ample amount of liquor and are currently lining up the bottles on the kitchen counter.

“Guilty as sin itself. I think everyone knows it. The evidence was overbearing. And it’s not like you can accidentally torture people.”

I nod toward Blaise. Tanner furrows his eyebrows.

“You don’t know.”

“He’ll make it out.”

“But you’re speculating,” I say.

“I’m observing. Killed two people when he was blackout drunk, and now he’s clutching a Bible to his chest.”

“And me?”

He hesitates for a moment, like he thinks I’m trying to trick him. But then he answers safely by saying, “You already said you’re going to die here.”

I pull my knees up to my chest. “I guess I did.”

“Even considering your minimal research on your own morality test.”

I can’t help but give a slight smile. Somehow, this kid’s cheekiness is comforting. Maybe it’s because he actually cares what I have to say.

I’m not used to that.

“The one thing I do know about the Compass Room is that this test is supposed to see who you truly are, despite your research. Despite good acting or the lies you tell yourself.”

His swallow is audible. “Are you afraid?” When I shake my head, he repeats my words back to me. “The Compass Room sees who you truly are, despite the lies you tell yourself.”

It’s the first time since I’ve woken that I notice the pounding of my heart. “When do you think the tests will start?”

Tanner glances over at Salem and Gordon as the boys clink together glasses full of clear liquid. “I think they already have.”

Blaise isn’t the only one engrossed by a book from the shelf in the living room. Erity’s been carrying around a hand-bound journal. Her dark hair hangs in a curtain around her face as she flips through the pages, first on a couch, then outside, and then tucked away in a corner.

“Looked over her shoulder when I walked by. It’s a witch book,” Salem whispers to Gordon when I walk into the kitchen. “All sorts of diagrams and Latin writing and shit, like it was on the shelf just for her. Little witch bitch. You should ask her to cast a spell.”

“Could probably learn a few fucked-up tricks from her.”

Valerie glares at them maliciously when she walks inside from the deck. We exchange glances before she starts scrounging around for food.

Gordon slides me a shot. “Don’t think, just drink.”

A mass torturer just slid me a shot, waiting with that stupid, smug grin of his. He doesn’t look like a psychopath, more like a surfer boy finishing up his final semester in San Diego.

Average. A curtain of average features to hide his twisted fetish. His smile makes me wonder if torturing those kids to death got him off.

“Suit yourself.” He picks the shot up off the table and downs it. “Top-shelf. Might as well—I’ll be gone in no time. Most of us will, except two-point-five of us. I wonder if the unlucky one will lose his legs. Maybe his arms. Or her legs and arms.” He waggles his eyebrows and I taste bile.

“They’re testing our morality, right? Any of this could be a lure to make us do something stupid,” I say.

“And then what, an army will come stomping through the door and shoot me dead? Doubt it.”

“He’s right, you know.” Salem sifts through the bottles in the liquor cabinet before choosing a petite tequila container, a label I’ve never seen before in my life. Probably because I don’t barhop at places that offer thirty-dollar shots. “Test ratios for Compass Rooms are against all of us. Your best bet would be to drink and fuck your last night away. Who’s it gonna be?” He winks, pointing his finger between Gordon and himself.

My stomach clenches. “You’re sick.”

“Better make your decision quick. It’s obvious you’ll be the first one dead.” He studies the bottle. “Damn, I’ve only drunk this one other time. That was a night, I’ll tell you.”

Valerie rests her hand on the knife block. Valerie Crane strung up three of her twin sister’s supposed rapists, and yet this asshole who is here because of his out-of-control cock is yammering away. As if he was clueless.

I shake my head at her. Don’t cause a scene, don’t shed blood. She grinds her teeth back and forth, burning holes into the back of Salem’s head as he takes a long pull from the bottle.

Casey has reappeared and studies the scene in the kitchen from the living room couch, expressionless.

“Have fun dying drunk and alone.” I saunter past them.

“Bitch.” Gordon snickers in amusement.

A crash rings through the kitchen. When I turn back, Valerie has Gordon pinned to the wall by his neck. “Apologize, you little fuck.”

A chuckle bubbles from Gordon’s mouth, setting every last one of my nerves on fire. His eyes roll lazily to me. “I’m sorry, Evalyn, for calling you a bitch.”

I don’t feel better.

Salem laughs and drinks.

“Let him go,” I tell Valerie. “You know it’s not worth it.”

She doesn’t listen immediately, shoulders heaving with every breath. Finally, she rips her hands away and stalks to the deck.

Not wanting to linger in the poisonous aftermath, I return to my room and sift through the contents of my bag. What to do in a house full of killers and psychopaths—I eye my canteen, my blanket.

I could leave.

There’s no sense sticking around here and waiting for the inevitable. Bags were given to us, bags with supplies. Perhaps we were meant to run, explore. Go separate ways. Perhaps Stella was right.