Free A Fierce and Subtle Poison by Samantha Mabry Page A

leave fairly typical . . . ” She paused to find the right word,
“ . . .
traces on the body.”
    I again pictured Marisol: blue, bloated, tangled in seaweed, the skin of her lips torn like bits of thin paper. My stomach pitched.
    “I’m not watching this anymore.” Ruben punched the television’s power button and then spun around to shove me hard in the chest. “Now get out, Luke!”
    I hesitated, but in the end, didn’t fight back. It wasn’t worth it. I couldn’t stand to be in that house anymore anyway.
    Back at the hotel, I skipped dinner and instead pilfered a couple of bottles of wine from my dad’s stash to take up to my room, where I was determined to drink until I blacked out. But when I stepped through the door, my foot landed directly on a textured cream-colored card.
    I snatched it off the ground and immediately recognized the handwriting.
    Please come back,
it read.
My name is Isabel.
I’d like to talk to you about the disappeared girl.

Nine
    THE FRONT GATE of the scientist’s house wasn’t an option. I grabbed on to it and shook, but its network of locks held it firmly in place.
    If forced to guess, I’d have to say the wall surrounding the courtyard was about seven feet tall. No sweat. If I took a running start, I could plant my foot on the wall, push off, and use the momentum to hoist myself over.
    I stepped across Calle Sol and looked around to make sure I was alone. If I was Catholic, I would’ve crossed myself like the señoras do when they need a little extra help from the man upstairs—touching the middle finger of their right hands to their forehead, heart, left shoulder, right shoulder. Since I’m not, I steadied myself with a breath and then shot across the street in five long strides. When the sole of my sneaker hit the wall, it immediately lost traction, causing the entire right side of my face to slam into plaster-covered concrete. I lamely tried to catch myself with my open palms, but went down hard.
    I swallowed a string of curses, peeled myself off the ground, wiped the bits of blue plaster off my hands, and went across the street to prepare for another running start. Again, I crossed in five even strides. The sole of my shoe hit the wall—this time it stuck. Momentum carried me a few precious inches, and I was able to grab on to the top of the wall with both hands. From there, I pulled myself up and managed to swing my right leg over the edge.
    For a second, I straddled the top of the wall, catching my breath and surveying the dark courtyard and the small, weird forest it contained. After a moment teetering between two worlds, I swung my left leg over and dropped into the garden. The bottoms of my sneakers met slick bricks, and I lost my balance. The last thing I heard before my head hit the ground and I blacked out was a shout that may or may not have come out of my own mouth.
    I woke up to a dizzying blur of green leaves and dark sky. Scattered drops of rain were falling into my open mouth and onto my dry lips. Above me, the indistinct figure of a small person came into view, a veil of black surrounding a face. The person, a girl, was saying something; it sounded like she was shouting at me through water.
    I was being moved. I could feel my skin scraping against stone. After mumbling something about a butcher’s son and love letters, I blacked out again.
    I woke for the second time to the sound of a wasp buzzing in my ear. My eyes snapped wide open, took in the bright moon above, and slammed back shut. I brushed my hand up against my ear, but the buzzing didn’t go away.
    I remembered: jumping, falling through the leaves, the feeling of being dragged across something hot and hard. My forearms itched. I held them up to my eyes. It looked like the skin on both was covered in blisters.
    A girl said, “You’re awake. I was starting to get worried.”
    I craned my head in the direction of the voice. That slight movement hurt,
bad
.
    “Who . . . ?” Just the act of forming