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“I thought it would be best to clean up.”

I spin to see Owen leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. “Good morning.”

My fingers curl into fists at my sides. I hate that I’m relieved to see him. I’ve been dreading this moment since last night, and yet the thought of his not being here was in a way more frightening. But now that he’s here, I need to figure out what to do. I have to dispatch him, and soon, but the questions that have been filling up my head all night are now trying to climb my throat.

Owen slides the knife out of the holster at his back. “Still determined to fight me?” I hesitate, my eyes flicking from the glinting knife to his face and back. This is not the way to beat him. I force my hands to unclench. “Ready to listen, then?” He arches an eyebrow, feigning surprise.

“You claim there’s a way to live without lies,” I start. “How?”

Owen smiles, returning the knife to its hidden sheath. “Isn’t it obvious?” he says. “Your life is only made of secrets and lies because the Archive is. You exist in the shadows because the Archive does.” His blue eyes glitter with excitement. “I am going to drag the Archive out of the dust-covered dark and into the light of day. I’m going to give it back to the world it claims to serve.”

“How?”

“By opening the doors,” he says, spreading his arms. “By letting the Archive out and the world in.”

“The world can’t even see the doors, Owen.”

“Only because it’s forgotten how. The whole world is wearing blinders. But if we take them off, eyes will adjust. Lives will adjust. They’ll have to.” I shake my head. “It’s time for change, Mackenzie. It’s messy, but the era of secrets must end. The world will adapt, and so will the Archive. It must.” His brow furrows, darkening his eyes. “Think about what the Archive’s secrets have cost us. Histories only slip because they wake into a world they do not know. They succumb to panic. Confusion. Fear. But if the Archive weren’t a secret—if everyone knew what came next—they wouldn’t be afraid. And if they let go of their fear and began to understand, then if and when they woke, they wouldn’t slip. Ben wouldn’t have slipped. Regina wouldn’t have slipped. No one would slip.”

“Histories aren’t meant to wake in the first place,” I counter. “And what you’re suggesting—a mass awakening—is madness for the living and the dead. Crew will hunt you down before you even start.”

“Not if they are with me.” He takes a step forward. “You think you are the only one who doubts, Mackenzie? The only one who feels trapped? Do you know why the Archive keeps everyone isolated? It’s so they feel alone. So that when one of them feels fear or anger or doubt—and they all do—they think they are the only ones. They stay quiet, because they know that one life doesn’t matter to the Archive.

“Crew are stronger, paired minds, willing to obey or disobey as a group, but not daring enough to do so. Keepers and Crew all know: if one person or pair rises up, the Archive will simply cut them down. It can always extinguish one voice, Mackenzie. But it can’t douse them all. Fear. Anger. Doubt. They have been piling up like kindling inside the Archive, and the whole place is ready to burn. The Archive is doing everything it can to keep the fire from starting, but all that’s needed is someone to strike the match. So believe me when I tell you that the Crew will go with me. And the other Keepers, too. The question is, will you?”

I open my mouth, but I’m cut off by the sound of steps in the trophy hall beyond the door. Owen falls silent beside me as voices take shape.

“I know the official missing person mark is forty-eight hours,” someone is saying, “but what with all the disappearances, I thought it best to let you know.”

“I’m glad you did,” replies a gruff voice I recognize at once. Detective Kinney. I press myself against the wall beside the door as the footsteps draw closer. Owen doesn’t try to hide, but doesn’t move, either.

“His wife called me this morning,” says the first man. “Apparently, he never picked up their son from preschool yesterday, and he never went home last night.”

“Does he have a habit of wandering off?”

“No. And then, when he didn’t show this morning, I figured I’d better call. I wish I could tell you more.”

The footsteps come to a stop on the other side of the door.

“He was last seen here?” asks Kinney, peering in through the glass.

“Coach Kris saw him in his office before the bell rang.”

Kinney pulls away from the door. “We’ll start there, then,” he says.

The footsteps fade along with the voices as the two walk away. I let out a deep breath, resting my hands on my knees.

“This is all your fault,” I say. “If you hadn’t dragged those people through—”

“Really it’s yours,” counters Owen, “since you pushed me into the void. But who’s counting crimes?”

The bell rings in the distance, and I check to make sure the coast is clear before pushing the door open.

“The detective is,” I say, Owen falling into step beside me. I have to remind myself as I step onto the quad that no one else can see him. And even if they could, he’d blend in. His silver-blond hair glitters in the sunlight, and I can almost imagine what he must have looked like as a student here. His simple black attire lacks any gold piping, but otherwise he’d look just like any other senior. I don’t know how much of that has to do with the fact that he is—was—Crew and how much is the fact that, even though he seems old, he’s not.

Within seconds of entering the tide of students, I realize how hard it will be to keep my ring off. The path is crowded, and I’m instantly buffeted by a chorus of what color tights should I wear tonight will Geoffrey even notice I’ll never pass x to the ninth is what how many references do I need should have added art Coach Metz better not make us do sprints I’m still sore from Mom is going to kill me I’m going to kill Amelia I hate this place Wesley Ayers better dance with me why did I agree to so weird sometimes metatarsal is connected to the I wish I had cookies get it right empty house Dad is being such an ass stressed silver horns or black streaks can I pull off wings and it’s all tangled up in stress and fear and want and teenage hormones.

I grit my teeth against the crush of people’s lives.

“It’s time to let the world in,” presses Owen beside me. He brings his hand down on my shoulder, his quiet pressing through me, and instead of talking—ostensibly to myself—I think the next question.

And what happens once you’ve done that? I challenge. The living would, what? Be free to visit the dead?

“Why not?” says Owen aloud. “They already do—in graveyards.”

Yeah, I think, but in graveyards the dead can’t wake.

I roll my shoulder, shaking him off before he can hear my thoughts spinning.

People aren’t smart when it comes to the dead. That’s what Da said, and he was right.

How many would claw their way toward their loved ones, rip them from sleep to keep them close? How long would it take for the walls to come down as well as the doors and the world to tear itself apart?

How can he not see that this is madness? Is he truly that blind to the consequences? Or is he really willing to tear the world apart just to get his way? Either way, I have to stop him. But how? Even in his weakened state, the odds aren’t in my favor. Owen cannot die. I can.