I think of Roland, who’s been here since my induction; but the others—Lisa and Patrick and Carmen—all came later.
“You stuck around,” I say.
“Had to keep you out of trouble.”
Roland’s Chucks bounce nervously.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“We aren’t going to do anything.” Roland’s head snaps up. “You’re going to stay away from this case.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Mackenzie, that’s the other reason I summoned you. You’ve already taken too many chances—”
“If you’re talking about the list of names—”
“You’re lucky I’m the one who found it.”
“It was an accident.”
“It was reckless.”
“Maybe if I’d known the paper could do that, maybe if the Archive didn’t keep everything so damn secret—”
“Enough. I know you only want to help, but whoever is doing this is dangerous, and they clearly don’t want to get caught. It’s imperative that you stay out of—”
“—the way?”
“No, the crosshairs.”
I think of Jackson’s knife and Hooper’s attack. Too late.
“Please,” says Roland. “You have a lot more to lose. Let me take it from here.”
I hesitate.
“Miss Bishop…”
“How long have you been a Librarian?” I ask him.
“Too long,” he says. “Now, promise me.”
I force myself to nod, and I feel a pinch of guilt as his shoulders visibly loosen because he believes me. He gets to his feet and heads to the door. I follow, but halfway there, I stop.
“Maybe you should let me see Ben,” I say.
“Why’s that?”
“You know, as a cover-up. In case our rogue Librarian is watching.”
Roland almost smiles. But he still sends me home.
EIGHTEEN
MOM SAYS there’s nothing a hot shower can’t fix, but I’ve been steaming up the bathroom for half an hour and I’m no closer to fixing anything.
Roland sent me home with a last glance and a reminder not to trust anyone. Which isn’t hard when you know that someone is trying to bury the past and possibly you with it. My mind immediately goes to Patrick, but as much as I dislike him, the fact is he’s a model Librarian, and there are at least a dozen other Librarians in the Archive on a given day. It could be any of them. Where do you even start?
I turn the water all the way hot and let it burn my shoulders. After Roland, I went hunting. I wanted to clear my head. It didn’t work, and I only managed to return the youngest two Histories, cutting my list in half for all of five minutes before three new names flashed up.
I hunted for Owen too, but without any luck. I’m worried now that I’ve scared him away, though away is a relative term in the Narrows. There can be only so many places to hide, but I haven’t found them yet, and apparently he has. I’ve never met a History who didn’t want to be found. And why shouldn’t he hide? His bartered day is up, and I’m the one who means to send him back. And I will…but first I need to know what he knows, and to get that, I need to gain his trust.
How do you gain a History’s trust?
Da would say you don’t. But as the water scalds my shoulders, I think of the sadness in Owen’s eyes when he spoke of Regina—not of her death, when his voice went hollow, but the time before, when he talked about the games she’d play, the stories she’d hide throughout the building.
One time she wrote me a story and scattered it all across the Coronado, wedged in garden cracks and under tiles, and in the mouths of statues.… It took me days to recover the fragments, and even then I never found the ending.…
I snap the water off.
That’s my shot at Owen’s trust. A token. A peace offering. Something to hold on to. My spirits start to sink. What are the odds of anything left for sixty-five years still being here? And then I think of the Coronado, its slow, unkempt decay, and I realize that maybe, maybe. Just maybe.
I dress quickly, glancing at the Archive paper on my bed (and grimacing at the five names, the oldest—18). I used to wait days in hopes of getting a name, relished the moment of reveal. Now I shove the slip into my pocket. A stack of books sits on a large box, Dante’s Inferno on top of the pile. I tuck the paperback under my arm and head out.
Dad is still at the kitchen table, on his third or fourth cup of coffee, judging by the near-empty pot beside him. Mom is sitting beside him, making lists. She has at least five of them in front of her, and she keeps writing and rewriting and rearranging as if she can decode her life that way.
They both look up as I walk in.
“Where are you off to?” asks Mom. “I bought paint.”
One of the cardinal rules of lying is to never, if it can be prevented, involve someone else in your story, because you can’t control them. Which is why I want to punch myself when the lie that falls from my lips is, “To hang out with Wesley.”
Dad beams. Mom frowns. I cringe, turning toward the door. And then, to my amazement, lie becomes truth when I open it to find a tall, black-clad shape blocking my way.
“Lo and behold,” says Wesley, slouching in the doorway, holding an empty coffee cup and a brown paper bag. “I have escaped.”
“Speak of the devil,” says Dad. “Mac was just on her way—”
“Escaped what?” I ask, cutting Dad off.
“The walls of Chez Ayers, behind which I have been confined for days. Weeks. Years.” He rests his forehead against the door frame. “I don’t even know anymore.”
“I just saw you yesterday.”
“Well. It felt like years. And now I come begging for coffee and bearing sweets with the intent of rescuing you from your indentured servitude in the pit of…” Wesley’s voice trails off as he sees my mother, arms crossed, standing behind me. “Oh, hello!”
“You must be the boy,” says Mom. I roll my eyes, but Wesley only smiles. Not crookedly, either, but a genuine smile that should clash with his black spiked hair and dark-rimmed eyes, but doesn’t.
“You must be the mom,” he says, sliding past me into the room. He transfers the paper bag to his left hand and extends his right to her. “Wesley Ayers.”
Mom looks caught off guard by the smile, the open, easy way he does it. I know I am.
He doesn’t even flinch when she takes his hand.
“I can see why my daughter likes you.”
Wesley’s smile widens as his hand slips back to his side. “Do you think she’s falling for my dashing good looks, my charm, or the fact I supply her with pastries?”
Despite herself, Mom laughs.
“’Morning, Mr. Bishop,” says Wesley.
“It’s a beautiful day,” says Dad. “You two should go. Your mom and I can handle the painting.”
“Great!” Wes swings his arm around my shoulder, and the noise slams into me. I push back, try to block him out, and make a mental note to punch him when we’re alone.
Mom gets us two fresh coffees and walks us to the door, watching as we go. As soon as the door closes behind us, I knock Wesley’s arm off my shoulders and exhale at the sudden lack of pressure. “Ass.”
He leads the way down to the lobby.
“You, Mackenzie Bishop,” he says as we hit the landing, “have been a very bad girl.”
“How so?”
He rounds the banister at the base of the staircase. “You involved me in a lie! Don’t think I didn’t catch it.”
We pass through the study to the garden door, and he throws it open and leads me into the dappled morning light. The rain has stopped, and as I look around, I wonder if Regina would hide a bit of story in a place like this. The ivy is overgrown and might keep a token safe, but I doubt a scrap of paper would survive the seasons, let alone the years.