Where Do We Go From Here?

It had been a relief, at first.

Finally confessing to Ricin what they'd done.

But she hadn't expected him to just walk away when it was over.

It's easier to spill a secret if you know the person will bluster for a while and gradually wear themselves out.  The dangerous ones are those who steadily watched you open up and keep their silence.  Waiting.  Watching.  To pounce, when you least expect it.

Where was he going?  Would he be back?

He'd lain in a coma for weeks.  The group had debated the merits of sharing their secret with him.  Zorah hadn't wanted to -- they were already in a precarious situation.  In the end, however, she'd acknowledged it was probably for the best, and as they were afraid of his reaction, they'd told him together.  It wasn't fair to send one person as emissary when they were all to blame.

Zorah had braced herself for a psychic blow or perhaps a burning sensation when he searched their minds for confirmation, but it felt more like a breeze.  He flipped through their memories as if he were reading a book.

And then he was gone.

Zorah sat at the edge of the group, hunched over on an old wooden stool.  How was she supposed to feel?  Guilty?  Sad?  Properly chastised?  She didn't feel any of those things.

What she did feel was anger.  Anger at being abandoned.  She knew that what they'd done (or allowed to be done) was wrong.  They'd made a mistake and it had already cost someone's life.  Several lives, in fact.  And they'd paid dearly for it.  She'd been through hell and back, and the first thing Ricin did was walk out the door?

The others avoided Zorah like she had a storm brewing above her.  She heard them talking amongst themselves and wished she could join in like she had something to say.  But anger snapped her mouth shut and she decided to keep silent.  For now.