Текст книги "The Archived"

Автор книги: Victoria Schwab

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

THIRTEEN

CLASSICAL MUSIC WHISPERS through the circular antechamber of the Archive.

Patrick is sitting at the desk, trying to focus on something while Roland leans over him, wielding a pen. A Librarian I’ve never spoken to—though I’ve heard her called Beth—is standing at the entrance to the atrium, making notes, her reddish hair plaited down her back. Roland looks up as I step forward.

“Miss Bishop!” he says cheerfully, dropping the pen on top of Patrick’s papers and coming to meet me. He guides me off in the direction of the stacks, making small talk, but as soon as we turn down a wing on the far side of the atrium, his features grow stern, set.

“Did you find the girl?” I ask.

“No,” he says, leading me through a tight corridor and up a flight of stairs. We cross a landing and end up in a reading room that’s blue and gold and smells like old paper, faded but pleasant. “There’s no one in the branch that fits your description or the time line.”

“That’s not possible; you must not have searched wide—” I say.

“Miss Bishop, I scrounged up whatever I could on every female resident—”

“Maybe she wasn’t a resident. Maybe she was just visiting.”

“If she died in the Coronado, she’d be shelved in this branch. She isn’t.”

“I know what I saw.”

“Mackenzie—”

She has to be here. If I can’t find her, I can’t find her killer. “She existed. I saw her.”

“I’m not questioning that you did.”

Panic claws through me. “How could someone have erased her from both places, Roland? And why did you call me here? If there’s no record of this girl—”

“I didn’t find her,” says Roland, “but I found someone else.” He crosses the room and opens one of the drawers, gesturing to the History on the shelf. From his receding hairline to his slight paunch to his worn loafers, the man looks…ordinary. His clothes are dated but clean, his features impassive in his deathlike sleep.

“This is Marcus Elling,” Roland says quietly.

“And what does he have to do with the girl I saw?”

“According to his memories, he was also a resident on the third floor of the Coronado from the hotel’s conversion in 1950 until his death in 1953.”

“He lived on the same floor as the girl, and died in the same time frame?”

“That’s not all,” says Roland. “Put your hand on his chest.”

I hesitate. I’ve never read a History. Only the Librarians are allowed to read the dead. Only they know how, and it’s an infraction for anyone else to even try. But Roland looks shaken, so I put my hand on Elling’s sweater. The History feels like every other History. Quiet.

“Close your eyes,” he says, and I do.

And then Roland puts his hand over mine and presses down. My fingers instantly go numb, and it feels like my mind is being shoved into someone else’s body, pushed into a shape that doesn’t fit my own. I wait for the memories to start, but they don’t. I’m left in total darkness. Typically, memories start with the present and rewind, and I’ve been told the lives of Histories are no different. They begin with their end, their most recent memory. Their death.

But Marcus Elling has no death. I spin back for ten solid seconds of flat black before the dark dissolves into static, and then the static shifts into light and motion and memory. Elling carrying a sack of groceries up the stairs.

The weight of Roland’s hand lifts from mine, and Elling vanishes. I blink.

“His death is missing,” I say.

“Exactly.”

“How is that even possible? He’s like a book with the last pages torn out.”

“That is, in effect, exactly what he is,” says Roland. “He’s been altered.”

“What does that mean?”

He scuffs one sneaker against the floor. “It means removing a memory, or memories. Carving the moments out. It’s occasionally done in the Outer to protect the Archive. Secrecy, you have to understand, is key to our existence. Only a select few members of Crew are capable of and trained to do alterations, and only when absolutely necessary. It’s neither an easy nor a pleasant task.”

“So Marcus Elling had some kind of contact with the Archive? Something that merited wiping the end of his memory?”

Roland shakes his head. “No, altering is sanctioned only in the Outer, and only to shield the Archive from exposure. If he were dead or dying, there’d be no risk of exposure. In this case, the History was altered after he was shelved. The alteration’s old—you can tell by the way the edges are fraying—so it was probably right after he arrived.”

“But that means that whoever did it wanted Elling’s death hidden from people here in the Archive.”

Roland nods. “And the severity of the implication…the fact that this happened…it’s…”

I say what he won’t. “Only a Librarian possesses the skills to read a History, so only a Librarian would be able to alter one.”

His voice slides toward a whisper. “And to do so goes against the principles of this establishment. Altering is used to modify the memories of the living, not bury the lives of the dead.”

I stare down at Marcus Elling’s face, as if his body can tell me something his memories couldn’t. We now have a girl with no History, and a History with no death. I thought I was being paranoid, thought that Hooper could have been a glitch, that maybe Jackson stole the knife. But if a Librarian was willing to do this, to break the cardinal oath of the Archive, then maybe a Librarian was behind the malfunctioning list and the weapon too. But whoever altered Elling would be long gone by now…right?

Roland looks down at the body, a deep crease forming between his brows. I’ve never seen him look so worried.

And yet he is the one who asks me if I’m all right. “You seem quiet,” he adds.

I want to tell him about the Keeper-Killer and the Archive knife, but one has been returned and the other is strapped to my calf beneath my jeans, so instead I ask, “Who would do this?”

He shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Don’t you have a file or something on Elling? Maybe there are clues—”

“He is the file, Miss Bishop.”

With that he closes the drawer on Elling and leads me from the reading room back to the stairs.

“I’ll keep looking into this,” he says, pausing at the top of the steps. “But Mackenzie, if a Librarian was responsible for this, it’s possible they were acting alone, defying the Archive. Or it’s possible they had a reason. It’s even possible they were following orders. By investigating these deaths, we’re investigating the Archive itself. And that is a dangerous pursuit. Before we go any further, you need to understand the risks.”

There’s a long pause, and I can see Roland searching for words. “Altering is used in the Outer to eliminate witnesses. But it’s also used on members of the Archive if they choose to leave service…or if they’re deemed unfit.”

My heart lurches in my chest. I’m sure the shock is written on my face. “You mean to tell me that if I lose my job, I lose my life?”

He won’t look at me. “Any memories pertaining to the Archive and any work done on its behalf—”

“That is my life, Roland. Why wasn’t I told?” My voice gets louder, echoing in the stairs, and Roland’s eyes narrow.

“Would it have changed your mind?” he asks quietly.

I hesitate. “No.”

“Well, it would change some people’s minds. Numbers in the Archive are thin as it is. We cannot afford to lose more.”

“So you lie?”

He manages a sad smile. “An omission is not the same thing as a lie, Miss Bishop. It’s a manipulation. You as a Keeper should know the varying degrees of falsehood.”

I clench my fists. “Are you trying to make a joke about this? Because I don’t find the prospect of being erased, or altered, or whatever the hell you want to call it very funny.”

My trial plays back like a reel in my head.

If she proves herself unfit in any way, she will forfeit the position.

And if she proves unfit, you, Roland, will remove her yourself.

Would he really do that to me, carve the Keeper out of me, strip away my memories of this world, of this life, of Da? What would be left?

And then, as if he can read my thoughts, Roland says, “I’d never let it happen. You have my word.”

I want to believe him, but he’s not the only Librarian here. “What about Patrick?” I ask. “He’s always threatening to report me. And he mentioned someone named Agatha. Who is she, Roland?”

“She’s an…assessor. She determines if a member of the Archive is fit.” Before I can open my mouth, he adds, “She won’t be a problem. I promise. And I can handle Patrick.”

I run my fingers through my hair, dazed. “Aren’t you breaking a rule just by telling me this?”

Roland sighs. “We are breaking a great many rules right now. That’s the point. And you need to grasp that before this goes any further. You can still walk away.”

But I won’t. And he knows it.

“I’m glad you told me.” I’m not, not at all, I’m still reeling; but I have to focus. I have my job, and I have my mind, and I have a mystery to solve.

“But what about Librarians?” I ask as we descend the steps. “You talk about retiring. About what you’ll do when you’re done serving. But you won’t even remember. You’ll just be a man full of holes.”

“Librarians are exempt,” he says when he reaches the base of the steps, but there’s something hollow in his voice. “When we retire, we get to keep our memories. Call it a reward.” He tries to smile and doesn’t quite manage it. “Even more reason for you to work hard and move up those ranks, Miss Bishop. Now, if you’re certain—”

“I am.”

We head down the corridor back to the atrium.

“So what now?” I ask softly as we pass a QUIET PLEASE sign on the end of a line of stacks.

“You’re going to do your job. I’m going to keep looking—”

“Then I’ll keep looking, too. You look here, and I’ll look in the Outer—”

“Mackenzie—”

“Between the two of us we’ll find out who’s—”

The sound of footsteps stops me midsentence as we round a set of stacks and nearly collide with Lisa and Carmen. A third Librarian, the one with the red braid, is walking a few steps behind them, but when we all pull up short, she continues on.

“Back so soon, Miss Bishop?” asks Lisa, but the question lacks Patrick’s scorn.

“Hello, Roland,” says Carmen, and then, warming when she sees me, “Hello, Mackenzie.” Her sun-blond hair is pulled back, and once again I’m struck by how young she looks. I know that age is an illusion here, that she’s older now than she was when she arrived, even if it doesn’t show, but I still don’t get it. I can see why some of the older Librarians choose the safety of this world over the constant danger of Keeper or Crew. But why would she?

“Hello, Carmen,” says Roland, smiling stiffly. “I was just explaining to Miss Bishop”—he accentuates the formality—“how the different sections work.” He reaches out and touches the name card on the nearest shelf. “White stacks, red stacks, black stacks. That sort of thing.”

The placards are color-coded—white cards for ordinary Histories, red for those who’ve woken, black for those who’ve made it to the Outer—but I’ve only ever seen white stacks. The red and black are kept separately, deep within the branch, where the quiet is thick. I’ve known about the color system for a full two years, but I simply nod.

“Stay out of seven, three, five,” says Lisa. As if on cue, there’s a low sound, like far-off thunder, and she cringes. “We’re having a slight technical difficulty.”

Roland frowns but doesn’t question. “I was just leading Miss Bishop back to the desk.”

The two women nod and walk on. Roland and I return to the front desk in silence. Patrick glances back through the doors and sees us coming, and gathers up his things.

“Thank you,” says Roland, “for standing in.”

“I even left your music going.”

“How kind of you,” Roland says, managing a shadow of his usual charm. He takes a seat at the desk as Patrick strides off, a folder tucked under his arm. I head for the Archive door.

“Miss Bishop.”

I look back at Roland. “Yes?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says.

I nod.

“And please,” he adds, “be careful.”

I force a smile. “Always.”

I step into the Narrows, shivering despite the warm air. I haven’t hunted since the incident with Hooper and Owen, and I feel stiff, more on edge than usual. It’s not just the hunt that has me coiled, it’s also the new fear of failing the Archive, of being found unfit. And at the same time, the fear of not being able to leave. I wish Roland had never told me.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

My chest tightens, and I force myself to take a long, steadying breath. The Narrows is enough to make me claustrophobic on a good day, and I can’t afford to be distracted like this right now, so I resolve to put it out of my mind and focus on clearing my list and keeping my job. I’m about to bring my hands to the wall when something stops me.

Sounds—the stretched-out, far-off kind—drift through the halls, and I close my eyes, trying to break them down. Too abstract to be words; the tones dissolve into a breeze, a thrum, a…melody?

I stiffen.

Somewhere in the Narrows, someone is humming.

I blink and push off the wall, thinking of the two girls still on my list. But the voice is low and male, and Histories don’t sing. They shout and cry and scream and pound on walls and beg, but they don’t sing.

The sound wafts through the halls; it takes me a moment to figure out which direction it’s coming from. I turn a corner, then another, the notes taking shape until I round a third and see him. A shock of blond hair at the far end of the hall. His back is to me, his hands in his pockets and his neck craned as if he’s looking up at the ceilingless Narrows, in search of stars.

“Owen?”

The song dies off, but he doesn’t turn.

“Owen,” I call again, taking a step toward him.

He glances over his shoulder, startling blue eyes alight in the dark, just as something slams into me, hard. Combat boots and a pink sundress, and short brown hair around huge blackening eyes. The History collides with me, and then she’s off again, sprinting down the hall. I’m up and after her, thankful the pink of her dress is bright and the metal on her shoes is loud, but she runs fast. I finally chance a shortcut and catch her, but she thrashes and fights, apparently convinced I’m some kind of monster, which—as I’m half carrying, half dragging her to the nearest Returns door—maybe I am.

I pull the list from my pocket and watch as Jena Freeth. 14. fades from the page.

The fight has done one thing—scraped the film of fear away, and as I lean, breathing heavy, against the Returns door, I feel like myself again.

I retrace my steps to the spot where I saw Owen, but he’s nowhere to be found.

Shaking my head, I go in search of Melanie Allen. I read the walls and track her down, and send her back, all the while listening for Owen’s song. But it never starts again.

FOURTEEN

LIST CLEARED, I head back to the coffee shop, ready to save Wesley Ayers from the perils of domestic labor. I use the Narrows door in the café closet, and freeze.

Wesley isn’t alone.

I creep to the edge of the closet and chance a look out. He’s engaged in lively conversation with my dad, talking about the perks of a certain Colombian coffee while he mops the floor. The whole place glitters, polished and bright. The rust-red rose, roughly the diameter of a coffee table, gleams in the middle of the marble floor.

Dad is juggling a mug and a paint roller, waving both as he sloshes dark roast and finishes a large color swatch—burnt yellow—on the far wall. His back is to me as he chats, but Wesley catches sight of me and watches as I slide from the closet and along the wall until I’m near the café door.

“Hey, Mac,” he says. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“There you are,” says Dad, jabbing the air with his roller. He’s standing straighter, and there’s a light in his eyes.

“I told Mr. Bishop I offered to cover while you ran upstairs to get some food.”

“I can’t believe you put Wesley here to work so fast,” says Dad. He sips his coffee, seems surprised to find so little left, and sets it down. “You’ll scare him off.”

“Well,” I say, “he does scare easily.”

Wesley wears a look of mock affront.

“Miss Bishop!” he says, and I have to fight back a smile. His impersonation of Patrick is spot-on. “Actually,” he admits to my father, “it’s true. But no worries, Mr. Bishop, Mac’s going to have to do better than assign chores if she means to scare me off.”

Wesley actually winks. Dad smiles. I can practically see the marquee in his head: Relationship Material! Wesley must see it too, because he capitalizes on it, and sets the mop aside.

“Would you mind if I borrowed Mackenzie for a bit? We’ve been working on her summer reading.”

Dad beams. “Of course,” he says, waving his paint roller. “Go on, now.”

I half expect him to add kids or lovebirds, but thankfully he doesn’t.

Meanwhile, Wes is trying to tug off the plastic gloves. One snags on his ring, and when he finally manages to wrest his hand free, the metal band flies off, bouncing across the marble floor and underneath an old oven. Wes and I go to recover it at the same time, but he’s stopped by Dad’s hand, which comes down on his shoulder.

Wes goes rigid. A shadow crosses his face.

Dad’s saying something to Wes, but I’m not listening as I drop to the floor before the oven. The metal grate at the base digs into the cut on my arm as I reach beneath, stretching until my fingers finally close around the ring, and I get to my feet as Wesley bows his head, jaw clenched.

“You okay there, Wesley?” asks Dad, letting go. Wes nods, a short breath escaping as I drop the ring into his palm. He slides it on.

“Yeah,” he says, voice leveling. “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy.” He forces a laugh. “Must be the fumes from Mac’s blue soap.”

“Aha!” I say. “I told you cleaning was bad for your health.”

“I should have listened.”

“Let’s get you some fresh air, okay?”

“Good idea.”

“See you, Dad.”

The café door closes behind us, and Wesley slumps back against it, looking a little pale. I know the feeling.

“We have aspirin upstairs,” I offer. Wesley laughs and rolls his head to look at me.

“I’m fine. But thank you.” I’m struck by the change in tone. No jokes, no playful arrogance. Just simple, tired relief. “Maybe a little fresh air, though.”

He straightens up and heads through the lobby, and I follow. Once we reach the garden, he sinks down on his bench and rubs his eyes. The sun is bright, and he was right, this is a different place in daylight. Not a lesser place, really, but open, exposed. At dusk there seemed so many places to hide. At midday, there are none.

The color is coming back into Wesley’s face, but his eyes, when he stops rubbing them, are distant and sad. I wonder what he saw, what he felt, but he doesn’t say.

I sink onto the other end of the bench. “You sure you’re okay?”

He blinks, stretches, and by the time he’s done, the strain is gone and Wes is back: the crooked smile and the easy charm.

“I’m fine. Just a bit out of practice, reading people.”

Horror washes over me. “You read the living? But how?”

Wesley shrugs. “The same way you read anything else.”

“But they’re not in order. They’re loud and tangled and—”

He shrugs. “They’re alive. And they may not be organized, but the important stuff is there, on the surface. You can learn a lot, at a touch.”

My stomach turns. “Have you ever read me?”

Wes looks insulted but shakes his head. “Just because I know how doesn’t mean I make a sport of it, Mac. Besides, it’s against Archive policy, and believe it or not, I’d like to stay on their good side.”

You and me both, I think.

“How can you stand to read them?” I ask, suppressing a shudder. “Even with my ring on, it’s awful.”

“Well, you can’t go through life without touching anyone.”

“Watch me,” I say.

Wesley’s hand floats up, a single, pointed finger drifting through the air toward me.

“Not funny.”

But he keeps reaching.

“I. Will. Cut. Your. Fingers. Off.”

He sighs and lets his hand drop to his side. Then he nods at my arm. Red has crept through the bandage and the sleeve where the bottom of the oven dug in.

I look down at it. “Knife.”

“Ah,” he says.

“No, it really was a teenage boy with a really big knife.”

He pouts. “Keeper-Killers. Kids with knives. Your territory was never that much fun when I worked there.”

“I’m just lucky, I guess.”

“You sure I can’t give you a hand?”

I smile, more at the way he offers this time—tiptoeing through the question—than the prospect; but the last thing I need is another complication in my territory.

“No offense, but I’ve been doing this for quite a while.”

“How’s that?”

I should backtrack, but it’s too late to lie when the truth is halfway up my throat. “I became a Keeper at twelve.”

His brow furrows. “But the age requirement is sixteen.”

I shrug. “My grandfather petitioned.”

Wesley’s face hardens as he grasps the meaning. “He passed the job to a kid.”

“It wasn’t—” I warn.

“What kind of sick bastard would—” The words die on his lips as my fingers tangle in his collar, and I shove him back against the stone bench. For a moment he is just a body and I am a Keeper, and I don’t even care about the deafening noise that comes with touching him.

“Don’t you dare,” I say.

Wesley’s face is utterly unreadable as my hands loosen and slide away from his throat. He brings his fingers to his neck but never takes his eyes from mine. We are, both of us, coiled.

And then he smiles.

“I thought you hated touching.”

I groan and shove him, slumping back into my corner of the bench.

“I’m sorry,” I say. The words seem to echo through the garden.

“One thing’s for certain,” he says. “You keep me on my toes.”

“I shouldn’t have—”

“It wasn’t my place to judge,” he says. “Your grandfather obviously did something right.”

I try to shape a tight laugh, and it dies in my throat. “This is new to me, Wes. Sharing. Having someone I can share with. And I really appreciate your help—That sounds lame. I’ve never had someone like… This is a mess. There’s finally something good in my life and I’m already making a mess of it.” My cheeks go hot, and I have to clench my teeth to stop the rambling.

“Hey,” he says, knocking his shoe playfully against mine. “It’s the same for me, you know? This is all new to me. And I’m not going anywhere. It takes at least three assassination attempts to scare me off. And even then, if there are baked goods involved, I might come back.” He hoists himself up from the bench. “But on that note, I retreat to tend my wounded pride.” He says it with a smile, and somehow I’m smiling, too.

How does he do that, untangle things so easily? I walk with him back through the study and into the lobby. As the revolving doors groan to a stop after him, I close my eyes and sink back against the stairs. I’ve been mentally berating myself for all of ten seconds when I feel the scratch of letters and dig my list from my pocket to see a new name scrawl itself across my paper.

Angela Price. 13.

It’s getting harder to keep this list clear. I am heading for the Narrows door set into the side of the stairs when I hear a creak and turn to see Ms. Angelli coming in, struggling with several bags of groceries. For an instant, I’m back in the Archive, watching the last moment of Marcus Elling’s recorded life as he performed the exact same task. And then I blink, and the large woman from the fourth floor comes back into focus as she reaches the stairs.

“Hi, Ms. Angelli,” I say. “Can I give you a hand?” I hold out my hands, and she gratefully passes two of the four bags over.

“Obliged, dear,” she says.

I follow her up, choosing my words. She knows about the Coronado’s past, its secrets. I just have to figure out how to get her to share. Coming at it head-on didn’t work, but maybe a more oblique path will. I think of her living room, brimming with antiques.

“Can I ask you something,” I say, “about your job?”

“Of course,” she says.

“What made you want to be a collector?” I understand clinging to one’s own past, but when it comes to the pasts of other people, I don’t get it.

She gives a winded laugh as she reaches the landing. “Everything is valuable, in its own way. Everything is full of history.” If only she knew. “Sometimes you can feel it in them, all that life. I can always spot a fake.” She smiles, but then her face softens. “And…I suppose…it gives me purpose. A tether to other people in other times. As long as I have that, I’m not alone. And they’re not really gone.”

I think of Ben’s box of hollow things in my closet, the bear and the black plastic glasses, a tether to my past. My chest hurts. Ms. Angelli shifts her grip on the groceries.

“I haven’t got much else,” she adds quietly. And then the smile is back, bright as her rings, which have torn tiny holes in the grocery bags. “I suppose that might sound sad.…”

“No,” I lie. “I think it sounds hopeful.”

She turns and heads past the elevators, into the north stairwell. I follow, and our footsteps echo as we climb.

“So,” she calls back, “did you find what you were looking for?”

“No, not yet. I don’t know if there are other records about this place, or if it’s all lost. It seems sad, doesn’t it, for the Coronado’s history to be forgotten? To fade away?”

She is climbing the stairs, and while I can’t see her face, I watch her shoulders stiffen. “Some things should be allowed to fade.”

“I don’t believe that, Ms. Angelli,” I say. “Everything deserves to be remembered. You think so too, or you wouldn’t do what you do. I think you probably know more than anyone else in this building when it comes to the Coronado’s past.”

She glances back, her eyes dancing nervously.

“Tell me what happened here,” I say. We reach the fourth floor and step out into the hall. “Please. I know that you know.”

She drops her groceries onto a table in the hall and digs around for her keys. I set my bags beside hers.

“Children are so morbid these days,” she mutters. “I’m sorry,” she adds, unlocking the door. “I just don’t feel comfortable talking about this. The past is past, Mackenzie. Let it rest.”

And with that, she scoops up her groceries, steps into her apartment, and shuts the door in my face.

Instead of dwelling on the irony of Ms. Angelli telling me to let the past rest, I go home.

The phone is ringing when I get there. I’m sure it’s Lyndsey, but I let it ring. A confession: I am not a good friend. Lyndsey writes letters, Lyndsey makes calls. Lyndsey makes plans. Everything I do is in reaction to everything she does, and I’m terrified of the day she decides not to pick up the phone, not to take the first step. I’m terrified of the day Lyndsey outgrows my secrets, my ways. Outgrows me.

And yet. Some part of me—a part I wish were smaller—wonders if it would be better to let it go. Let her go. One less thing to juggle. One less set of lies, or at least omissions. I hate myself as soon as the thought forms. I reach for the phone.

“Hey!” I say, trying to sound breathless. “Sorry! I just walked in.”

“Have you been out finding me some ghosts or exploring forbidden corners and walled-up rooms?”

“The search continues.”

“I bet you’re too busy getting close to Guyliner.”

“Oh, yeah. If I could just keep my hands off him long enough to look around…” But despite the joke, I smile—a small genuine thing that she obviously can’t see.

“Well, don’t get too close until I can inspect him. So, how goes it in the haunted mansion?”

I laugh, even as a third name scratches itself into the list in my pocket. “Same old, same old.” I dig the list out, unfold it on the counter. My stomach sinks.

Angela Price. 13.

Eric Hall. 15.

Penny Walker. 14.

“Pretty boring, actually,” I add, running my fingers over the names. “How about you, Lynds? I want stories.” I crumple the list, shove it back in my jeans, and head into my room.

“Bad day?” she asks.

“Nonsense,” I say, sagging onto my bed. “I live for your tales of adventure. Regale me.”

And she does. She rambles, and I let myself pretend we’re sitting on the roof of her house, or crashed on my couch. Because as long as she talks, I don’t have to think about Ben, or the dead girl in my room, or the missing pages in the study, or the Librarian erasing Histories. I don’t have to wonder if I’m losing my mind, dreaming up Keepers, or acting paranoid, twisting glitches and bad luck into dangerous schemes. Because as long as she talks, I can be somewhere else, someone else.

But soon she has to leave, and hanging up feels like letting go. The world sharpens the way it does when I pull out of a memory and back into the present, and I examine the list again.

The Histories’ ages have been going up.

I noticed it before and thought it was a blip, a rash of double digits, but now everyone on my list is in their teens. I can’t afford to wait. I pull on some workout pants and a fresh black shirt, the knife still strapped carefully to my calf. I won’t use it, but I can’t bring myself to leave it behind. The metal feels good against my skin. Like armor.

I head into the living room right as Mom comes through the front door with her arms full of bags.

“Where are you off to?” she asks, dropping everything on the table as I continue toward the door.

“Going for a run,” I say, adding, “Might go out for track this year.” If my list doesn’t settle down, I’ll need a solid excuse for being gone so often anyway, and I used to run, back in middle school when I had spare time. I like running. Not that I actually plan to go running tonight, but still.

“It’s getting dark,” says Mom. I can see her working through the pros and cons. I head her off.

“There’s still a little light left, and I’m pretty out of shape. Won’t go far.” I pull my knee to my chest in a stretch.

“What about dinner?”

“I’ll eat when I get back.”

Mom squints at me, and for a moment, part of me begs for her to see through this, a flimsy, half-concocted lie. But then she turns her attention to her bags. “I think it’s a good idea, you joining track.”

She always tells me she wishes I’d join a club, a sport, be a part of something. But I am a part of something.

“Maybe you could use some structure,” she adds. “Something to keep you busy.”

I almost laugh.

The sound crawls up my throat, a near hysterical thing, and I end up coughing to hold it back. Mom tuts and gets me a glass of water. Staying busy isn’t exactly a problem right now. But last time I checked, the Archive didn’t offer PE credits for catching escaped Histories.