Wrong Side Of Dead by Kelly Meding Page B

take my temper out on someone who didn’t deserve it. The gym was a good place to do that.
    My room, alas, was on the opposite end of the mall from the gymnasium rooms. We always kept extra sweats around, though, so I forewent a trip for clothes and headed the other way. My path took me past Operations. A buzz of conversation drifted through the open doors, and I slipped by quickly.
    “Stone!”
    Shit
. I stopped, looked over my shoulder. Baylor had poked his head out of Ops.
    “What?” I asked.
    “You reporting in?”
    “I already reported to Astrid,” I replied. “Eleri can report the rest of it. Unless Walter Thackery happens to call with ransom demands, I don’t want to talk to anyone for at least half an hour. Okay?”
    Fortunately, Baylor was used to my snappish tendencies. “Okay. Where’s Phineas?”
    “Around, probably blowing off steam.”
    He nodded, then went back into Operations. The entire mall was outfitted with heat sensors in order to keep track of the two hundred–plus people who came and went on a daily basis. If Baylor needed to locate Phin, an osprey-sized heat signature would be easy to spot on the internal security system.
    I made it to the gym without further incident. Some of the free weights were being used. I ignored the funny looks my outfit earned me, snatched a pair of sweatpants and a cotton T-shirt out of the community locker, and put them on with practiced ease. The sticky leather skirt came off as the sweatpants went up. Tank top off after the T-shirt was on. All skills I learned in Juvie, when privacy was at a minimum and you wanted to flash as little skin as possible in a room full of others.
    The adjoining workout room was empty. Blue mats lined the floor, with two specific wrestling areas taped out. The opposite side of the room had several suspended heavy bags and three speed bags. Throwing some punches at sand-filled leather was a better alternative to taking my anger out on someone’s softer flesh, so I found a pair of gloves that fit.
    My first punch sent a shock up my right shoulder. I hadn’t done this in a while. The majority of my physical training these last few weeks had been about endurance.Getting my cardio stamina back up, getting my joints loose and flexible again, and putting back on some useful muscles—all lost during those weeks of torture.
    I spread my feet, corrected my stance, tried again. Better.
    Left hand, right hand. Jabs, upper cuts, crosses. Sweat slicked my back and face and trickled down my neck. It felt great. I imagined Thackery’s face on that heavy bag. A face I’d looked up at from a metal gurney for twenty days, always calculating and earnest, a zealot to his own research. A face I longed to beat into a bloody, broken mess and then watch as it took its last breath.
    My arms and back muscles burned from exertion. My legs felt like jelly, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. I just couldn’t stop. Stopping was giving up, and I wasn’t giving up on this. Wouldn’t stop until I had Ava, Aurora, Joseph, Leah, Michael Jenner, and all the missing others back.
    Back from wherever they’d been taken.
    Back from someone who’d kill without hesitation.
    I should have done more to protect them
.
    Sweat trickled down my cheeks—no, not sweat. Tears. My throat closed, making it almost impossible to breathe. The dam I’d been slamming against all night finally broke, and I fell to my knees sobbing. For Felix. For Ava. For my own pent-up frustration and anger. For everyone whose loved ones were missing.
    I couldn’t stop the torrent of tears or stifle the choking gasps. Couldn’t do anything but let it out. And then someone’s arms were around me, pulling me close. I let him drag me against a firm chest, held tight by those strong, warm arms. I pressed my face into the crook of his shoulder, awareness breaking through with a single thought—Wyatt.
    The realization just deepened my sobs. I wrapped my arms around his waist and held