CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LAW OF EFFECT

( — the principle that behaviors are selected by their consequences; behavior having good consequences tends to be repeated whereas behavior that leads to bad consequences is not repeated. )

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          FRIDAYS NOW ONLY MEAN ONE THING TO THE PARTICIPANTS OF PROJECT OXYGEN. Back in the day, for those who actually had an active social life (which clearly wasn't Rhiannon's case), Fridays meant going out to cool one's head after a stressful week of assignments, tests and lectures, for those who could relate; now that the experiment is a thing, it has turned into the only day they're all forced to be at the house.

          Though most of them try to make small-talk with each other, as there really isn't anything better to do, especially with all those cameras watching them, Rhiannon can't help but feel like they've joined a reality show instead of a Social Psychology experiment. After all, they're being paid for being watched as they roam around a house Rhiannon wishes she had nothing to do with, with the small difference of there being no eliminations.

          She hopes they won't start dropping like flies. Even if they chose to quit the experiment, they'd quickly be replaced because this isn't an isolated system and energy and matter are free to enter and exit this place.

          Nevertheless, she's not pleased. Being here means escaping her routine, which is something she definitely doesn't enjoy, and the house is too full, even if she's used to being around even more people back at her dorm. This is obviously different, as she was the one who chose to be here instead of bolting out like the coward she is, and, if there's one thing Rhiannon will always be thankful for, it's her freedom of choice.

          At the end of the first week, no one has made much progress. The only existent relationships are the ones that already existed prior to the signing of the forms, so, needless to say, Beatrice and Frances are already getting frustrated. On Wednesday, Rhiannon's second day at the house, they stopped by to let them all know they needed to make an effort to connect with each other; if they kept pulling such moves, the experiment would drag for way longer than it's supposed to and be a hassle for all those involved.

          Rhiannon wants to get this over with as quickly as possible. Really, she does. The only thing holding her back, besides her inability to figure out whether all these people can be trusted or not, is her lack of knowledge regarding how to be a team player. If she was one (or if she, at least, knew how to be one), she'd be helping the experimenters and doing something regarding the investigation of Taylor's disappearance.

          They have one thing the police don't and her name is Brooklyn Bach. No one really knows how to approach her, much like how they don't know how to begin a conversation with Dimitri because they all see him as Taylor's boyfriend, but there's no doubt in the world she'd know if people only tried to talk to her because she survived the urban legends.

          Technically, that's not what happened. Her disappearance had nothing to do with said legends and she didn't disappear; running away and simply vanishing into thin air are two completely different things, and Rhiannon recurrently has to force herself to remember that.

          At least, she hasn't been totally useless. Whenever she gathered enough information during the past four days through overhearing her housemates' conversations (pitiful, she knows), she'd write it down on small notes and keep them inside her wallet—a place no one ever checks. On the first Friday morning, she weaved through the snowy pathways, her combat boots sinking into the small white mountains, and found Rowan Underwood, seemingly immune to the cold.

          Seriously. It was astounding, as he's always sitting outside, having chosen to avoid the library (she suspects it has something to do with how Isla does the exact same thing), and only looked away from his laptop's screen when she stopped in front of him, blocking the sun.

          She didn't want to say it, but the exhaustion plastered all over his face grew worse by the day, with the purple circles under his dark eyes looking like permanent bruises against his light-brown skin, which was slowly losing its usual golden undertones. Even though she doesn't pay that much attention to him, she feared it might have started around the time Taylor went missing, maybe even before; writing that book, especially over such brutal things like that urban legend in particular, must be taking its final toll on him.

          Sighing, she slid her notes across the table, similarly as how she gave Connor her parents' two years ago and screwed things up for her entire family, and stole one of his cigarettes in return. Though he threw her a quick incredulous look, he said nothing and pulled the notes close to him, finishing their hopefully discreet exchange as she left to meet up with Roman.

          They both have so similar names she often fears she might mix them up, but, since she'll be spending more time with Roman, the odds of that happening will probably become considerably lower as time goes on.

          Part of her hopes Rowan will use the information for good deeds. Part of her only hopes he won't screw her over, but she has learned she's the only person she can count on at the end of the day—not a stranger.

          That's how the entire month of November goes by—blandly, like chewing on a piece of cardboard.

          As the sun sets and the wind howls in the distance, slamming naked tree branches against the window, Rhiannon finds herself sitting by the lit fireplace, illuminating the pristine living room in shades of yellow and orange. Her feet are hidden inside two pairs of fluffy wool socks, with one of them reaching her knees, over her leggings, and she pulls her knees close to her chest.

          The heat fans against her cheek and ear and it's mildly uncomfortable, but it sure beats being upstairs, where everything is much chiller. She has even had to bring her warmest blankets into this place, as she doubts Beatrice and Frances would be big fans of seeing her sleep on the couches downstairs instead of being around the other participants.

          Brooklyn exits the kitchen a while later, when Rhiannon is unable to keep pretending to be focused on the articles she's supposed to summarize, carrying two steaming mugs of tea. She hands her one and Rhiannon accepts it, albeit a tad bit surprised, as she can't recall them ever having spoken to each other unless it was purely out of courtesy.

          "You looked like you could use it," Brooklyn confesses, and Rhiannon gives her a small nod, timidly sipping the hot beverage. The apple cinnamon tee is scalding, burning her tongue and esophagus as it goes down, but she forces herself to push through. "Mind if I sit down?"

          "Go ahead."

          Brooklyn does just that, but only after setting her mug on the coffee table in front of them (and, much to Rhiannon's horror, she doesn't bother reaching out for a coaster, meaning it will live ring marks on the wooden surface). Once everything is settled, no one says a word, with Brooklyn crossing her legs over the pillow and Rhiannon staring at the surface of the beverage.

          Rhiannon desperately wants to say something, but she's the worst at beginning conversations; even Isla, who's usually as quiet as a mouse, has a much easier time at it, being able to mindless blabber for ages whenever she's nervous. When she's nervous, Rhiannon shuts down even more, functioning on auto-pilot mode.

          "Actually, I wasn't sure whether you liked tea or not," Brooklyn continues, when the silence has dragged on for too long for it to not be considered minimally awkward, "but I thought I'd run the risk. It's what helps me clear my head on bad days."

          "I have a lot of those," Rhiannon admits, in a low voice, and isn't quite sure of why she does it. Her trembling fingers are icy against the porcelain mug, which shakes between her hands, threatening to spill its contents all over her. "Thank you."

          "Yeah, me too." Brooklyn sighs, reaching out a hand to pull her mug closer to her and spin it around gently. "Things back home with my mom are the worst they have ever been and, if this wasn't my senior year and if I didn't have a scholarship, you bet she would have already dragged me out of this place. Especially now with that Taylor thing . . ." She flicks her tongue against the back of teeth, releasing a clicking sound, and sips her tea, while Rhiannon shifts in her seat. She doesn't know what Brooklyn's goal here is and is already wary of her intentions. "The police have been pestering her for weeks, wanting to figure out if she knows anything that can help with the investigation."

          "And?"

          Brooklyn throws her a deadpan glare, eyes as sharp as daggers, and her curls bounce as she moves her head. "What do you think? I don't how many times we'll have to tell people what happened to me had absolutely nothing to do with those urban legends, but they still called me, asking for a statement, as if there was anything I could have done. I didn't even know the girl."

          Rhiannon sinks even lower into her seat, as she meant no harm with her question and was just trying to keep the conversation going; the longer she can get Brooklyn to keep blabbering, the higher the odds of having her say something that might help. It sounds an awful lot like manipulation and Rhiannon is not Connor, meaning she never thought she'd ever be stepping this low, but, at least, she's not forcing her way inside Brooklyn's head to get her to talk.

          Unfortunately, not everyone is as stupidly naïve as Rhiannon was two years ago, being easily wooed by coherent sentences uttered by charismatic boys.

          Jude would probably be a lot better at this, but he has too much integrity to even think about manipulating information out of someone, especially when said person has done nothing, proving, once again, his humanity always speaks louder than anything else that could influence his decisions. Rhiannon, on the other hand, has let her ambition win, but it didn't do her any good; in fact, she came plummeting down to the ground, destroying everything in her way as she wrecked herself.

          Outside, a murder of ravens takes flight, leaving the window sill. Rhiannon says nothing.

          "I don't know what happened to Taylor and I'm not sure whether I want to know the truth or not," Brooklyn finally confesses, staring at the fireplace. Her dark eyes reflect the flames, with the latter bringing out the warmer undertones of her skin. "Everyone keeps treating me like I'm some kind of a miracle, but they always forget I ran away because I wanted to, not because someone took me or because I was in danger. I knew damn well what I was doing and the consequences it would bring."

          "Most people think she's dead," Rhiannon adds, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder to ensure they're still alone downstairs. Quite frankly, she doesn't mind if most of the other participants decide to eavesdrop (even Roman, whose hearing is a lot more enhanced than theirs), but she wants Dimitri to stay out of this. "I don't know what to think."

          "Do you think that's what they're trying to study? Beatrice and Frances?" Rhiannon looks at her, silently asking her to elaborate, and Brooklyn glances at her from the corner of her eye. "If they want us to push away the blame from ourselves, they have to find something we can be blamed for; do you think it has anything to do with her? As if any of us knew something they're not telling the cops."

          "Probably not." Rhiannon lowers one of her legs, leaning her cheek against the knee that stays folded. "I used to think that at the beginning of the experiment, but not anymore. I don't think we've all bonded enough for those effects to happen, at least not as strongly as they hoped they will. Maybe they'll have to find something else."

          "Maybe," Brooklyn sighs. "Maybe. I don't trust them. Not even one bit."

          Rhiannon gestures towards the camera facing them. "You think those things capture sound as well? If they do, they've listened to everything we've just said." Brooklyn flashes both her middle fingers at the camera in response to that comment and, though it startles Rhiannon at first, she soon breaks into laughter, with Brooklyn mimicking her. "I wish I was able to care as less as you."

          "Please," Brooklyn laughs, reaching out for the remote and turning on the TV. It's usually off, as they mostly use their laptops as TVs when they have some free time, but they suppose they have to catch up on the local and world news every now and then. Even though they're not sheltered from the outside world (it certainly seems like it, however, with all those security measures), everything unrelated to Project Oxygen seems to have become otherworldly. "They can't scare me. They need me a lot more than I need them."

          Other participants choose that exact time to return to the house, having been God knows where, Jude and Dimitri included. Jude has chosen to take him under his wing, as if the guy needed any special protection (for all they know, it could have been a targeted attack), and Rhiannon is glad his heart remains unaffected by all the evil surrounding this town.

          It turns out their timing really is terrible. Zelda waltzes inside the living room, decorating the place like a fairy of some sort, and Rhiannon gets up from the couch (tripping over own feet) to walk up to Jude, inhaling the scent of his cologne as he pulls her into his arms. His clothes are ice cold, with droplets of water dangling from the tips of his hair, and he mentions they got back just in time, as the storm outside is brutal.

          "Oh, no," Brooklyn mutters, and Zelda drops the flower pot she was holding. It shatters into a hundred pieces in front of her feet, the water spreading around her in a wide puddle. "No."

          "What?" Rhiannon asks, turning around to face her, but still staying where she is. Brooklyn returns the incredulous look, unable to speak, and everyone in the room falls silent, listening to the robotic voice of the reporters delivering some breaking news.

           Jude's hands tighten their grip on Rhiannon's shoulders, but she doesn't dare to turn around and face him; instead, her stare is glued to Dimitri's face as his mouth drops open, eyes following every minuscule movement of the reporters or the crashing of the waves against the shore.

          ". . . has been identified as twenty-year-old college student Taylor Morris," the reporter informs, as the news channel keeps showing footage of the beach, with the paramedics pulling two people out of the sea. The difference is that they find a weak pulse on one of them . . . and it's not on Taylor. "Morris was reported missing nearly two months ago, having been seen for the last time—"

          "Turn that thing off," Gabriella dryly orders, having shown up out of thin air, with Hailey following her close behind. "Just turn it off."

          No one utters a word. They're all scared mice, trapped in a cage, and Dimitri falls to a couch, defeated, and accidentally knocking aside Rhiannon's cup of tea. She doesn't allow herself to be bothered by it, with no one in the living room knowing what to do, what to say or what to think; Gabriella sets a shaky hand on Dimitri's shoulder and everything inside Rhiannon threatens to shatter as she hears him sob.

          The sound carves into her chest and she swallows, the open wounds being rubbed with salt, and she feels the sea water fill her lungs. Knowing what happened to Taylor certainly beats being left in ignorance, but she doubts it makes it any better for Dimitri, for her family or for her friends.

          It shouldn't.

          "You bastards," Hailey hisses, and walks towards one of the walls to stare up at one of the cameras. "You evil bastards."