UNDER ARREST
Several days after Birdie Golden had been arrested in her hospital bed following Magdalia’s rally, a nurse came in for a routine check of the girl’s injuries. Birdie had been diagnosed with a severe concussion and a simple skull fracture from flying off the police horse and hitting her head on the stone fountain at the park. She remembered thinking during the chase that a helmet would have been a good idea . . . but she didn’t recall anything after that. The doctors had been worried about her brain for a few days.
She also had a cut that had required eleven stitches, and they’d shaved part of her hair to fix it, which was awful, but not the worst part of this whole ordeal. If only Brix had been allowed in her room to heal her, he could’ve taken away the pain in a few minutes. But getting healed would have only hastened things along for what would be happening next. And that was the last thing Birdie wanted.
“You’re being discharged today,” the nurse whispered.
Birdie’s eyes widened in fear. When she left here, she wouldn’t be enjoying the safety of the monastery cottage or the company of her family and friends. She was an alleged criminal and would be going to jail.
The unknown was terrifying. What would it be like? She recalled Tenner’s description of the jeering prisoners who were being held at the police station. And she could picture the cold gray walls of the penitentiary they’d visited when looking for her mom, Elena. Would she be headed to one of those places? She couldn’t decide which would be worse.
After the nurse changed Birdie’s head bandage for the last time, she took out a tablet computer and started the discharge process. Police officers who’d been guarding the room this whole time made small talk in the hallway outside the door—Birdie could catch glimpses of them through the open door and hear their muffled voices. If Tenner were here, he’d be able to tell her exactly what they were saying. But Birdie was well aware of the only things that really mattered right now: They were guarding her to make sure she didn’t escape, and they were waiting to take her away.
Birdie hadn’t seen or spoken to any friends or family since she’d gotten hurt. The police wouldn’t let them in. But she kept hoping to see a slight shimmer in the hallway, which would mean Seven was there, sneaking around . . . but he never snuck in, as far as Birdie knew. Not even Birdie’s mother had been allowed to see her, which seemed especially harsh. Though this same nurse had whispered to Birdie that Elena had stayed in the waiting room for days, trying to convince the authorities to change their minds and let her talk to her daughter.
But they definitely wouldn’t allow a former lawbreaker like Elena Golden to visit her probably guilty daughter. This was the law in Estero. Criminals didn’t have many rights—not even thirteen-year-old criminals. Being supernatural certainly didn’t help. And Commander Collazo knew she was a super.
“You talk to animals.” Collazo had accused Birdie shortly after her arrest, when the handcuff was still cold around her wrist and the other police officers stood intimidatingly around her bed. “I saw you communicate with that raven outside the police station the first day we met. I’ve seen your pig, too.” The way she’d said that last part, with a sneer in her voice, made it sound like cute little innocent Puerco was some sort of dark swine mobster.
Birdie gulped. Apparently the commander had known she was a super way back when she and Tenner had been hauled in for questioning after the notorious old-money incident at the restaurant. Birdie didn’t respond to any of the police questions. Commander Collazo had informed her that she had a right not to speak, so she wasn’t going to say a word about the alleged crimes—especially the museum heist that had left Cami Leone in a crumpled heap.
Cami was dead, and Birdie was under suspicion for her murder. The police believed Birdie had killed her with her wasps. And even though people kept confirming Cami was dead, hearing those words never got easier. The truth weighed heavily on Birdie. She went to sleep thinking about it, and she woke up thinking about it, and throughout the day she’d be struck by flashes of one particular memory: Cami lying on the museum floor, drowning in that fake Magdalia dress.
Reverted back to her original identity. Dead.
As the days had passed with Birdie stuck in the hospital—not allowed to see anyone, unable to use her phone because Collazo had taken it, and forbidden from reading a book or even watching TV because of her head trauma—she’d had a lot of time to think about Cami’s life. The Librarian had said Cami had been funny and sarcastic. Had she enjoyed pranking other kids with her ability to change her identity? How long did it take for her to learn a new persona? What was her past like?
The Librarian had also said she and Cami had rarely discussed their family situations with each other back at Sunrise. That sort of thing had been painful for the kids, as most of them had been abandoned to some degree because of who they were.
But despite that, Birdie couldn’t stop worrying that someone out there was grieving deeply for Cami, desperately missing her the way Birdie missed her dead father, Louis. Surely whoever cared about Cami must hate the villain who’d done this to their loved one—cutting a life short before its time. As much as Birdie wanted to appear tough, she was having a lot of trouble with being despised . . . and being responsible for ending someone’s life. How was she supposed to defend herself when she was totally, 100 percent guilty? Why couldn’t she talk to someone so she could process it all? Would she be doing everything alone from now on? She was just a kid!
Birdie also couldn’t stop feeling sick to her stomach about the terrible mess she was in. She missed her friends and family more than she could imagine missing anyone. How worried they must be! Her mom had recently voiced that she’d never wanted this life for her children—the hiding and the danger of getting caught and the struggling to get by, to stay safe. And Brix—he’d rarely spent time away from Birdie and would be so nervous for her. Cabot, Lada, and Tenner had all naturally looked to her to keep the six kids together and in sync. And then there was Seven.
Birdie closed her eyes in pain. He must be devastated. Feeling totally helpless.
Kids first, always. That had become their mantra, and picturing it being true in every situation was a nice thing to imagine, but then reality set in. The other kids could do nothing to fix this problem. This obstacle was way too big to overcome. Birdie had been torn away from the others, and she didn’t know when she’d be with them again.
She and Seven . . . ugh. Her heart twisted every time she thought of him. They’d promised each other they would never be separated for long periods of time again. But Birdie had no idea how long she’d be in jail. Months? Years? Was her life over? Why wouldn’t anyone tell her what to expect? Whenever she thought about the future, she started bawling—not just a few tears, but deep, raking sobs that made her poor concussed, fractured head pound. She was scared to death.
She’d never had nobody before. There’d always been someone to lean on—her dad, Seven, Tenner, her mom. But now she was alone, and no one could rescue her from the things she’d done. Was saving Estero worth this? Not that they’d actually saved Estero at all! They’d only managed to roil up the enemy. Maybe even make things worse.
“Oh, my head,” Birdie groaned. She wiped her eyes and sank into her thoughts, searching for something happy to hold on to and landing on Lada’s birthday party less than a week ago. Back on that lovely day at the beach, Birdie had noticed the lighthouse around the bend of the bay.
She’d felt oddly akin to it. Like she’d been a beacon of light for a minute after rallying the kids. Now her beacon had been snuffed.
Birdie tried to hold back the next wave of tears. Crying again would make her headache flare up. Having a severe concussion, going to jail, and having a cry headache made everything feel so much worse. She closed her eyes and dozed off for a few minutes. She hadn’t been getting much sleep.
A while later, a police officer jangling a ring of keys popped into the room. He strode to the bedside and unlocked the handcuff that kept Birdie chained to the bed, and gruffly commanded her to collect her things.
Birdie struggled to her feet. She didn’t know where her clothes were.
“You’re going to miss these digs,” the officer said, sweeping his hand around the small room as the nurse pointed out the bag containing Birdie’s personal items that had been stored under the bed.
The officer droned on. “You won’t have your own private room in jail. No window, no soft bed.” He gave a coarse laugh that grated in Birdie’s sensitive ears—everything since the concussion had been amplified and brightened. She wondered if this was an inkling of what Tenner had to put up with every day with his super senses. If so, he was a saint for not complaining. She looked around at the niceties of the hospital room and tried not to think about what a jail cell would be like.
Early on in her hospital stay, Birdie had worried that the head injury would affect her ability to speak silently to animals. But once she’d started feeling a little better, she’d called out to some birds on the ledge and, from time to time, to her pet pig from the confines of her room. The birds answered half-heartedly, their energy matching Birdie’s. And at one point she thought she detected Puerco, even though she couldn’t imagine that a hospital would allow a pig indoors.
Perhaps Seven had brought him and stood outside her window a few stories below.
That thought had her tearing up again. It would be just like Seven to do something so lovely and thoughtful. But the handcuff had kept her from going to the window and looking out. The police weren’t exactly keen on letting a suspected murderer roam about.
Suspected murderer. Birdie hurried to block that out before she really started to think about it. It was only a suspicion, the commander had said. There would be more questioning about that for sure once she was out of the hospital, but they hadn’t pinned the actual murder of Cami Leone on her. Yet. Birdie had been arrested for breaking into the museum and for stealing a police horse, though.
Birdie would be going to jail soon. Maybe she’d catch a glimpse of her mother in the waiting room on the way out. That might break her heart. As Birdie picked up her bag of belongings and started toward the bathroom to change out of her hospital clothes, the officer stopped her. “No, you need to put these things on,” he said, tossing Birdie a bag. Startled, she caught it, jerking her head in the process and sending a blitz of pain pricks through her skull. Birdie looked inside the bag and wrinkled up her nose. Orange was not a good color on her. And the shoes were hideous.
After Birdie dressed in the ill-fitting prison clothing and shoes provided by the officer—things Birdie would never wear—the nice nurse rolled a big, bulky wheelchair into her room. It was nothing like the compact, angled-wheel kind that Lada used.
“We’ll take you to the van that’s waiting outside,” the nurse explained. “And then you’ll be on your way home—” The nurse stopped short and cringed at her mistake.
“On my way to prison,” Birdie corrected her stiffly.
“Yes.” She held Birdie’s gaze for a moment and whispered, “Hold strong.”
“Thanks.” Birdie looked away and got into the wheelchair.
The officer handcuffed Birdie’s wrists together in front of her. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Copyright © 2024 by Lisa McMann. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
