Free Conspiracy Girl by Sarah Alderson

it? So why did Agent
Corb— I mean Maggie, have to go back?’
    I’m starting to panic. How could she do this to me? My stomach is rolling around as though we’re at sea and my throat is squeezing shut. No one knows where I am.
I
don’t even know where I am. And someone, or some people, are after me and are killing any person who stands in the way. My eyes fly back to Finn. Does he realise how much danger he’s
in? Oh hell. I turn around looking for somewhere to set the coffee because I’m afraid I might drop it. I make a move to set it down on the desk but Finn reaches out and blocks my way.
    ‘Woah woah, not there,’ he says, nodding at the bank of computers and clutter of hard drives. ‘Not near the equipment.’
    ‘Sorry,’ I mutter.
    ‘Here, let me take it.’ He grabs it and our fingers brush. I jerk back, spilling hot coffee over his hand. He hisses and sets the coffee on the floor.
    My breath starts coming in gasps.
    ‘You OK?’ Finn asks.
    I glance upwards. Finn is on his feet. He towers over me – he’s at least six foot, maybe taller. I come up to his chin.
    Ignoring him, I bend over at the waist and try to suck in a breath. Suddenly I feel his hand on my lower back. It burns through my sweater like a branding iron and I shoot upright and jerk away
from him. His hand falls awkwardly to his side.
    ‘Why is this happening again?’ I wheeze.

FINN
    I can’t answer her, so I don’t. Scowling, she starts pacing the loft. Her hands are fisted at her sides and her eyes skitter over the space, to the windows then to
the doors and to the cube, as though she’s trying to find either a place to hide or a way out – I can’t figure which.
    She pauses by the cube and puts her hands on her hips, breathing as though her lungs are full of water. Tension ripples off her in almost visible currents.
    She reminds me of a half-wild cat that I found one summer when I was kid. It was trapped in the barn, going crazy. It was so starved its ribs showed through its fur. It was nursing a crippled
back leg, but when I came close it pounced at me, hissing, fur raising on end. I wanted to capture it and take it into the house, feed it and nurse it back to health. I had an idea I’d turn
it into a pet – maybe make it a wheelie robot leg to run around on – but my grandma told me that an animal that had suffered as badly as that cat likely had would never make a good pet.
It would never learn to trust. She told me it would only scratch me and then she’d have to take me for a rabies shot which she would pay for with my piggy bank savings. Then she told me to
stop being such a soft-hearted sap.
    I set it free and never saw it again.
    I shouldn’t have touched her just then. Clearly the girl has issues about people being in her personal space. Seeing her glance around the loft I get an idea. ‘Come on,’ I say,
grabbing my keys.
    She stops circling and narrows her eyes at me. ‘Where?’
    ‘Let’s get some air.’
    She trails me to the loft door, suspicious as the cat was when I tried to free it. ‘It’s safe,’ I reassure her.
    She makes a sound in the back of her throat and I kick myself mentally, wondering what that word means to her. Does she ever feel safe? Did she before last night? Judging from the security
systems she had installed in her apartment and the salivating beast at her side, I am guessing not. And even if they did offer her some modicum of reassurance, that’s now been taken from
her.
    From the corner of my eye I see her slip her arm around Goz’s neck to grip his collar. She has another nervous tic too, her hand often sliding down her thigh as though she’s slipping
it into an invisible bag. Possibly a habit she has of holding her Taser when she’s walking down a street. Interesting that she doesn’t carry a gun, but maybe not so surprising.
    ‘Bring the Skippy-loving beast,’ I tell her as I open the door to my apartment and hold it for her, taking care to give her enough