Текст книги "The Unbound"

Автор книги: Victoria Schwab

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“Does this make you my fairy godmother?” I ask as I let him in, locking the door behind us.

He considers the term. “Well, yes. In this case I guess that’s fair. But don’t tell Cash. My cred will go through the floor.”

“Where did you even get all this?” I ask, scanning the selection of pencils and shadows.

“Stole it from Safia.” He sets the box on the kitchen table and starts searching through, then makes an aha sound and emerges with a handful of shadows and a silver liner. “Sit,” he says, patting the tabletop.

I climb up, leaning forward until my face is inches from his. His hair is still smoothed down and his eyes unlined, and at this distance, I can see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. A strange panic fills me. I don’t know what’s going to happen; the only thing I know is that I want Wes as far away from it as possible.

“Skip it,” I whisper as he uncaps the liner.

“Skip what?”

“The dance,” I say. “Don’t go. Stay home.”

“With you?” he asks, smiling crookedly. I shake my head and the smile falters. “I don’t understand.”

“I just…” I start, but what can I say? What can I tell him without putting him in harm’s way? “Never mind.” I duck out from under his arms, feeling ill. I go into the bathroom and splash water on my face, then grip the counter and breathe.

“You okay?” calls Wes as I rifle through the medicine cabinet above the sink for some aspirin.

“My arm’s just sore,” I say, scanning the bottles of pills. My fingers curl around a prescription bottle I don’t recognize, and as I read the label, I realize what the small blue capsules are. Sleeping pills. Not your average over-the-counter kind; the kind strong enough to knock you out in minutes. They’re practically tranquilizers. These must be what Mom dissolved in my water. I hesitate, weighing the bottle, the contents, the possibility. Is this how my mother felt before she slipped them in my drink? My stomach turns, and I set the bottle back. I would do almost anything to keep Wes safe.

But not that. He would never forgive me.

“Here.” Wes appears in the doorway with a small vial. “I keep some aspirin in my bag.”

I take the tube with shaking hands and rinse down two while Wes assesses himself in the mirror. He pulls a small disk-shaped container from his pocket and opens it, dabbing his finger in the gel. He starts to spike his hair when someone knocks on the door.

“Coming,” I call.

“Is it pizza?” asks Wes from the bathroom. “I would kill for some pizza.”

“Wouldn’t get your hopes up,” I say. “Mom probably forgot a key.”

I throw the lock, and the door’s barely open before a hand tangles in my collar and wrenches me forward into the hall hard enough that the door slams shut behind me. I’m shoved back against the wood as about time been waiting can’t wait has it coming little Keeper spills in through my head, and I hardly have time to register the noise as Sako’s before a key is driven into the door and I fall back and through.

I hit the antechamber floor hard enough to knock the breath out of me and roll to my feet to see Agatha standing there, smiling grimly.

“Seize her,” she says, and I feel the sentinels take hold from either side as she comes forward, holding a piece of paper in front of my face.

“Do you know what this is, Miss Bishop?” The page is written in Latin, with the Archive seal—three vertical gold bars—at the top. “It’s permission,” she tells me, setting the paper on the desk. I try to pull free as she begins to tug off her black gloves one at a time.

“Now,” she says, setting them aside, “let’s see what you’ve been hiding.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

WHEN OWEN LOCKED me in the Returns room, my life—thrown onto the walls—began to compile, organize, and fold in. The sensation was strange and dull and numbing.

This is the opposite.

It’s like being turned inside out, exposed to things I don’t want to see, think, feel again. It’s all pulled out of the recesses of my mind and dragged violently into the light.

The pain tears through my head as I see Wesley in my bed my parents together on the couch looking at me like I’m already lost Cash handing me coffee Sako pinning me in the alley carved a line into my skin beating the thug’s face into the park path Roland telling me to lie down and Owen stalking me through the gargoyles killing me in class lifting Ben’s blue bear sitting in Dallas’s chair.

Da used to say that if you wanted to hide something, you had to leave it sitting out, right there on the surface.

“When you bury it,” he said, “that’s when people go digging.”

I think about that the instant before it starts. I think about it while Agatha’s in my mind, the pain knifing through my scalp and down my spine, all the way into my bones. I think about it after—or between—while I’m lying on the cold antechamber floor, trying to remind my body how to breathe.

There is a moment, lying on that floor, when I just want it to be over. When I realize how tired I really am. When I think Owen’s right and this place deserves to burn. But I drag myself back together. It’s too early to stop fighting. I have to get out of here. I have to get back to the Outer. I have to get through tonight. Because one way or another, I will get through tonight.

I struggle to my hands and knees. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, several drops dripping from my nose to the antechamber floor.

“Get her back up,” orders Agatha. The sentinels drag me to my feet, and her hand wraps around my jaw. “Why is that traitorous History streaked across your life like paint?”

Owen. I tell the closest thing to the truth that I can manage. “Bad dreams.”

Her eyes hold mine. “You think I can’t tell the difference between nightmares and memories?”

And then I realize something with grim satisfaction: she can’t. Because I can’t. She may be able to look inside my mind, but she can only see what I see.

“I guess not,” I say.

“You think you can hide things from me,” she growls, her fingers running through my hair. “But I’m going to find the truth, even if I have to tear your mind apart to do it.” Agatha’s grip tightens, and I close my eyes, bracing for another wave of pain, when the Archive door swings open behind her.

“I warned you, Roland,” she says without looking back, “that the next time you interrupted me I would have you reshelved.”

But the man in the doorway is not Roland. I’ve never seen him before. There is a kind of timeless poise to the warm brown hair that curls against his temples and the closely trimmed goatee that frames his mouth. A gold pin made of three vertical bars gleams on the breast pocket of his simple black suit.

“Unfortunately, my dear,” he says, his accent unplaceable, “you cannot play judge, jury, and executioner. You must leave some work for the rest of us.”

Agatha tenses at the sound of the man’s voice, her hands sliding from my head.

“Director Hale,” she says. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

Everything in me goes cold. A director. One of the Archive’s leaders. And one of its executioners. Roland appears at the man’s shoulder, and his eyes find mine for an instant, darkening with worry, before he follows the other man—Hale—into the antechamber. The director crosses to Agatha’s side with calm, measured steps, each eliciting a small snap.

“Seeing as my presence has a noticeable impact on your vehemence,” he says, “perhaps it’s best to behave as though I am always in the room.” His steady green eyes slide from Agatha to me. “And I’d advise you to take a little more care with our things,” he says, still addressing her. The sentinels release me, and I will myself to stay on my feet. “Miss Bishop, I presume.”

I nod, even though the small motion sends a wave of pain through my head.

Director Hale turns back to Agatha. “Judgment?”

“Guilty,” says Agatha.

“No!” I shout, lunging toward her. The sentinels are there in an instant, holding me back. “I didn’t make the voids, and you know it, Agatha.”

Hale frowns. “Did she make them or not?”

Agatha holds his gaze a long moment. “She didn’t make the doors, but—”

“I will remind you,” cuts in Hale, “that I only granted you permission so that you could determine if she was behind the void incidents. If she is innocent of that, then pray tell how is she guilty?”

“Her mind is disturbed,” says Agatha, “and she’s hiding things from me.”

“I didn’t realize anyone could hide things from you, Agatha. Doesn’t that defeat your purpose?”

Agatha stiffens, caught between outrage and fear. “She’s involved, Hale. Of that I have no doubt. At least let me detain her until I solve this case.”

He considers, then waves a hand. “Fine.”

“No,” I say.

“Miss Bishop,” warns Hale, “you really are in no place to make demands.”

“I can solve the case,” I say, the words spilling out.

Hale arches a brow. “You think you can succeed where my assessor has failed?”

I find Agatha’s eyes. “I know I can.”

“You arrogant little—”

Hale holds up his hand. “I’m intrigued. How?”

My chest tightens. “You have to trust me.”

Hale smiles grimly. “I do not trust easily.”

“I won’t let you down,” I say.

“Do not let her go,” warns Agatha.

Hale arches an eyebrow. “I can always bring her back.”

“Give me tonight,” I say. “If I fail, I’m yours.”

Hale smiles. “You belong to the Archive, Miss Bishop. You’re already mine.” He nods to the sentinels. “Release her.”

Their hands fall away.

“Hale—” starts Agatha, but he turns on her.

“You have failed me, my dear. Why shouldn’t I give someone else a chance?”

“She has a traitor’s heart,” says Agatha. “She will betray you.”

“And if she does, she will pay for it.” His attention shifts to me. “Do you understand?”

I nod, my eyes escaping for a moment to Roland. “I do.”

And then, before anyone can change Hale’s mind, I turn my back on the director, Roland, Agatha, and the Archive, knowing that it won’t be the last time I step through this door, but if my plan doesn’t work, it will be the last time I walk out of it.

Sako is waiting. She slots her key and turns it, holding the door open for me. “I hope you know what you’re doing, little Keeper,” she hisses as she shoves me through.

I stagger forward into the yellow hall of the Coronado before one knee finally buckles beneath me. Pain continues to roll through my head and, desperate for a moment of true quiet, I tug my ring from the chain around my neck and slide it back on for the first time all day. The world dulls a little as I get up and return to the apartment.

“Where the hell—” starts Wes when I open the door. And then he sees me and pales. “Jesus, what happened?”

“It’s okay,” I say, holding up a hand before I realize there’s blood on it.

Wes hurries into the kitchen to get a wet towel. “Who did this to you?”

“Agatha,” I say, taking the cloth and wiping at my face. “But it’s okay,” I say. “I’m okay.”

“Like hell, Mackenzie,” he says, taking the towel from my hand and blotting my chin.

“It’s going to be okay,” I correct.

“How can you say that? Did she get what she wants? Is it over?”

I shake my head, even though the motion sends pain through it. “Not yet,” I say with a sinking feeling. “But it will be soon.” One way or another.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t worry.”

Wes makes an exasperated sound. “You come home covered in your own blood two days after cutting yourself and say something cryptic about it all being over soon and expect me not to worry?”

My eyes go to the clock on the wall. “We need to get ready. I don’t want to be late.”

“Forget about the damn dance! I want to know what’s going on.”

“I want you to stay out of it.” I close my eyes. “This isn’t your fight.”

“Do you really believe that?” says Wes, throwing the towel down on the table. “That just because you keep me at arm’s length, just because you don’t tell me what you’re going through, that it somehow stops it from being my fight, too? That somehow you’re sparing me anything?”

“Wes—”

“You think I haven’t gone myself to every one of those crime scenes and searched for something—anything—to explain who’s doing this? You think I don’t lie awake trying to figure out what’s happening and how to help you? I care about you, Mackenzie, and because of that, it’s never not going to be my fight.”

“But I don’t want it to be your fight!” I dig my nails into my palms to keep my hands from shaking. “I want it to be mine. I need it to be mine.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” says Wes. “We’re part—”

“We’re not partners!” I snap. “Not yet, Wes. And we’ll never be, not unless I get through this.”

“Then let me help you.”

I press my palms against my eyes. Every bone and muscle in my body wants to tell him, but I can’t. I’m willing to bet with my life, but not with Wesley’s.

“Mackenzie.” I feel his hands wrap around mine, his bass playing through my head as he lowers them, holding them between us. “Please. Tell me what’s going on.”

I bring my forehead to rest against his. “Do you trust me, Wes?”

“Yes,” he says, and the simple certainty in his voice makes my chest hurt.

“Then trust me,” I plead. “Trust me when I say I have to get through this, and trust me when I say I will, and trust me when I say that I can’t tell you more. Please don’t make me lie to you.”

Wesley’s eyes are bright with pain. “What can I do?”

I manage a sad smile. “You can help me put my makeup on. And you can take me to the festival. And you can dance with me.”

Wesley takes a deep, shaky breath. “If you get yourself killed,” he whispers, “I will never forgive you.”

“I don’t plan on dying, Wes. Not until I know your first name.”

He hands me the towel from the table. “You get the blood off. I’ll get the makeup kit.”

“Okay. You can open your eyes.”

Wes holds up a mirror for me to see his work: dark liner dusted with silver and shadow. The effect is strange and haunting, and it pairs well with his own look. “One last touch,” he says, rooting around in his bag. He pulls out a pair of silver horns and nestles them in my hair. I consider my reflection, and a strange thought occurs to me.

When I pulled Ben’s drawer open, his History was wearing the red shirt with the X over the heart. The one he had on when he died. And if things go wrong tonight and I die, I’ll die like this: sixteen and three quarters in a plaid skirt with silver shadow on my face and glittering horns in my hair.

“What do you think?” asks Wes.

“You make a perfect fairy godmother,” I say, looking toward the clock on the wall. “We’d better get going.”

I head for the Narrows door in the hall, but Wes takes my hand and leads me downstairs instead, through the Coronado’s door and out to the curb.

There’s a black Porsche parked there. My mouth actually falls open when I see it. At first I think it can’t be Wesley’s, but it’s the only car around, and he heads straight for it.

“I thought you didn’t have a car.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he says proudly, producing a key chain. “I stole it.”

“From who?”

He presses a button on the key and the lights come on. “Cash.”

“Does he know?”

Wes smirks as he holds the door open for me. “Where’s the fun in that?” He sees me in and shuts the door, jogging around to the other side of the car and climbing into the driver’s seat.

“Are you ready?” he asks. There are so many questions folded into those three words, and only one way to answer.

I swallow and nod. “Let’s go.”

TWENTY-NINE

“ARE YOU AFRAID of dying?”

Wesley and I are sprawled out in the garden a week and a half before school starts. He’s been reading a book to himself, and I’ve been staring at the sky. I haven’t slept in what feels like days but might be longer, and the question slips through my mind and out my lips before I think to stop it.

Wes looks up from his book.

“No,” he says. His voice is soft, his answer sure. “Are you?”

A cloud slices through the sunlight. “I don’t know. I’m not afraid of the pain. But I’m afraid of losing my life.”

“Nothing’s truly lost,” he says, reciting Archive mantra.

I sit up. “We are, though, aren’t we? When we die? Histories aren’t us, Wes. They’re replicas, but they’re not us. You can’t prove that we are what wakes up on those shelves. So the thought that nothing’s lost doesn’t comfort me. It doesn’t make me any readier to die.”

Wes sets the book aside. “This is kind of a morbid topic,” he says. “Even for you.”

I sigh and stretch back out on my stone bench. “Our lives are kind of morbid.”

Wes goes quiet, and I assume he’s gone back to reading, but a minute or two later he says, “I’m not afraid of dying, but I’m terrified of being erased. Seeing what it did to my aunt…I’d rather die whole than live in pieces.”

I consider him. “If you could leave the Archive without being altered, would you?”

It is a dangerous question, one I shouldn’t ask. It whispers of treason. Wes gives me a cautious look, trying to understand why I’m asking.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“But if it did? If you could?”

“No.” I’m surprised by the certainty in his voice. “Would you?”

I don’t answer.

“Mackenzie?” he prompts.

“Mackenzie, we’re here.”

I blink to find the car sitting in the Hyde School lot. Wes is twisted in his seat, looking at me. “You okay?” he asks. I will myself to nod and offer him a reassuring smile, then climb out of the car. With my back to Wes, I slide the silver ring off and loop it on my necklace chain, wishing I could cling a little longer to the buffer and everything that comes with it. But I can’t afford to miss Owen.

“Wesley Ayers!” calls Safia from the edge of the parking lot, “you look ridiculous.” All four of them are there waiting for us: Saf and Cash with gold streaks in their rich, dark hair, Amber with blue ribbons and butterfly patterns on her cheeks, Gavin in green, thick-framed glasses that take up half his face.

Wes runs a hand over his black spiked hair. “You say ridiculous, I say dangerous.”

Cash arches a brow. “Dangerous as in, you could probably impale a low-flying bird?”

“Love the horns, Mackenzie,” says Amber.

“I thought you had a date, Safia,” I say.

“Yeah, whatever, I bailed.”

“She wanted to be with us,” says Amber. “She’s just too proud to admit it.”

“Is that my car?” asks Cash.

On campus, the buildings are dark, but the light from the festival glows against the low clouds, and the air is filled with the distant thrum of music—nothing but highs and lows from here. We reach the front gate with its wrought iron bars and its sculpted H—abandon all hope, ye who enter here—and pass through. Then we head down the tree-lined path toward the main building and around it, the noise growing louder and the lights growing brighter as we approach. When we pass into the glowing center of campus, Fall Fest rises up before us.

Silver, black, green, and gold. The colors trail in streamers down the building fronts to every side and across the lawn, forming a colorful canopy. Lanterns hang from the trees, lights line the paths, and the grass below the streamers is filled with students and edged with booths. The music seems to come from everywhere, not the way it does when I touch Wes—not filling my bones—but simple and normal and real and loud and all around. A group of girls in brightly colored wigs is perched on a bench eating and laughing, a huddle of boys is playing booth games, and a ton of students decked out in wild makeup and glittering accessories are dancing. The air is alive with their bodies and voices.

Teachers dot the crowd, chatting with one another—none of them with face paint or fake hair, but all in dark clothes like shadows cast around the festival. Mr. Lowell and Dallas hover in front of a booth; Ms. Hill and Ms. Wellson sit on a bench at the edge of the grass dance floor. And there, leaning against a drink stand, is Eric. I tense when I see him, looking grim as he surveys the crowd. I should have known he would be here, watching. But is he still acting as Roland’s eyes? On the other side of the lawn, Sako sits perched on the edge of another bench. She is definitely here for Agatha. I scan the crowd for any other vigilant eyes and spot a third—a man I’ve never seen before, one with dark skin and Sako’s same cold grace—which means that somewhere there’s probably a fourth, his partner, but I don’t see her. Everyone else looks like they belong. And really, somehow, so do the Crew.

But there is no sign of Owen. Not yet. Even with the whole school here and everyone decked out with crazy hair and strange eyes, I know I’ll spot him at a glance.

The party starts at seven. The show’s at eight.

What is he planning? A cold shiver of dread travels down my spine. What if the gamble’s too great? What if I’m making a horrible mistake?

Amber and Gavin link arms and head for the nearest food stand, and Safia grabs Wesley’s sleeve and demands a dance.

“It’s tradition,” she says. “You always dance with me.”

Wesley hesitates, clearly not wanting to leave my side. And if I’m being honest, I don’t want him to leave, either. I’m struck by the sudden fear that if he does, I won’t have a chance to… To what? Say good-bye? I won’t say that anyway.

“Go on, you two,” says Cash. “Mac and I will get along fine.”

Safia pulls Wesley into the throng, and Cash holds out his hand. “May I?”

I accept, and my head fills with his jazz and laughter and all of his thoughts, and as we dance I do my best to let them be like music instead of words and listen only to the melody. Cash is full enough of life and energy that, as we spin and twirl and smile and sing along, I almost forget. Even hearing his voice and his music and his life in my head for one whole song, I almost forget. That is the beauty of Cash. Another me in another life would have fallen for this pretty boy who looks at me and only sees a pretty girl and helps me pretend for one song that anything could be that simple.

But even if I believed in Owen’s dream of a life without secrets and lies, Cash is not the boy I’d share it with.

Soon the song trails off and a slower one picks up. A senior girl appears at Cash’s shoulder and asks for a dance. Wesley appears at my side at the same time.

“Dance with me,” he says. And before I can say anything, he wraps his arm around my waist and fills my head with his sadness and his fear and—threaded through it all—his ever present hope. I rest my ear against his shoulder and listen to his heart, his noise, his life. Every moment of it hurts, but I don’t let go or push away.

And then, near the end of the song, I see Owen hovering at the edge of the dance floor. His eyes meet mine. My pulse quickens, and I tighten my grip on Wes, gathering up the strength to pull away. I can do this. Whatever I have to do to put an end to this—to Owen—I will do it. I have to. I let him out. I’ll return him. I’ll lay him at the Archive’s feet and earn my life back with his body.

Owen turns and makes his way to the shadow beside the clock tower. The song ends, but Wesley doesn’t let go, and I look up into his dark-rimmed eyes.

“What is it?” he asks.

“You’re worth it,” I tell him.

His brow crinkles. “What do you mean?”

I smile. “Nothing,” I say gently. “I’m going to get a drink. Save me another dance, okay?”

My fingers begin to slide through his. He hesitates and starts to tighten his grip, but Amber grabs his other hand and pulls him toward her. “Where’s my dance, Ayers?” she asks. Our hands fall apart. The music starts up again and I vanish into the crowd, forcing myself not to look back.

Eric’s back is turned and Mr. Bradshaw is trying to strike up a conversation with Sako as I slip away into the dark. Owen is humming (you are my sunshine, my only sunshine…), and I follow the sound of it into the shadows of the clock tower, where I find him leaning against the brick side, turning his knife over between his fingers.

“Hyde School always knew how to throw a party,” he says, eyes lost in the glittering lights.

“Will you tell me now what’s going to happen here? When do we steal the page?”

“That’s the thing,” says Owen, putting away his knife. “We don’t.”

I stiffen. “I don’t understand.”

“There’s a reason this plan requires two people, Mackenzie. One of them distracts the Archive while the other steals the page.”

“You want me to create the diversion?”

“No,” says Owen, “I want you to be the diversion.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re already on thin ice with the Archive, right? Well, if they’re busy dragging you to your alteration, they’re less likely to notice me.”

“Why would they be doing that?” I ask slowly.

“Because you’re not going to give them a choice. You’re going to make a scene. The Archive hates scenes. I’ve already staged it for you.” He toes the grass, and even in the dark I can see wires. Fuses.

“I said I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“You have to play your part, Mackenzie. Besides, they’re only fireworks. I told you, something short and bright. Flash and show. Once you’ve lit the match—a literal one this time—all you have to do is be ready to run. I’ll take care of the hard part.”

“What hard part?”

“All eyes are on you,” he continues. “Waiting for you to mess up or make a move. So that’s what you’re going to do. And then you’re going to run, and Crew will chase you. And when they catch you—and they will—you’re going to fight back, with everything you have, to the very end.”

My mind spins. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. We are supposed to go into the Archive together. I am supposed to return him. How am I supposed to do that if I’m being executed?

“You don’t want a diversion, Owen. You want a sacrifice.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I am not a martyr,” I snap.

“I won’t let them erase you.”

“Oh, well, if you won’t let them…” I say sarcastically.

“I’ll save you,” he insists. “Trust me.”

I scoff. “You want me to put my life in your hands.”

In an instant, Owen has me back against the brick wall. “Your life has been in my hands since the moment I stepped out of that void,” he growls.

A sickening realization dawns on me. He’s already set the scene. He doesn’t need my consent to make me a diversion. But the only way he’ll come for me is if he thinks I’m worth saving.

But the ledger is on the desk at the very front of the Archive. What’s to stop him from walking in and taking it and leaving without me?

“I won’t,” he says, reading the thoughts through my skin. “I will not leave you behind. I still need you. We are the bringers of change, Mackenzie. But I need you to be the voice of it.”

His hands fall away. He turns toward the festival, and the lights cast shadows across his pale skin. “Change is coming,” he says quietly. “Either the Archive will evolve or it will fall.”

And watching him in that unsteady light, it hits me.

It’s all a lie. His promise of an Archive without secrets, his dream of a world exposed—Owen doesn’t expect the Archive to survive this. He doesn’t want it to. He wants the same thing he’s always wanted: to tear it down. And he thinks he’s found a way to do that—by letting this world do the work.

He doesn’t want change.

He wants ruin.

And I will do whatever it takes to keep him from it.

My mind is spinning, but I cannot afford to let him see my panic. I take a short, steadying breath. “You should have told me sooner,” I say. “For someone who scorns secrets, you sure keep a lot of them.”

He frowns. “I didn’t want you to overthink it,” he says. “But our fates are bound in this. If you fail, I fail; and if I fail, you fail. We are like partners.”

We are nothing like partners, I think, but all I say is, “Don’t you dare leave me there, Owen.”

He smiles. “I won’t.”

And then he crouches and lifts the end of the fuse from the grass. A lighter appears in his other hand. He looks up at the clock tower beside us. Five minutes till eight p.m.

“Perfect,” he says, sliding his thumb over the lighter. A small flame dances there. “Five minutes from the spark.” He touches the flame to the fuse and it catches, a hissing sound running down the line. No turning back now, I realize with a mixture of terror and energy.

“Find the spotlight.” Owen steps out of the shadows and onto the path, but I linger against the building and pull the phone from my pocket. There’s a text from Wesley…

Where are you?

…and I answer back…

Science hall.

…hoping I can at least get him out of the way of whatever’s about to happen. And then I swallow and dial home. Mom answers.

“Hi,” I say. “Just checking in. As promised.”

“Good girl,” says Mom. “I hope you have a great time tonight.”

I fight to keep the fear out of my voice. “I will.”

“Call us when it’s over, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, and I can tell she’s about to hang up, so I say, “Hey, Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” I say, before ending the call.

Four minutes till eight p.m. The clock tower looms overhead, fully lit. I watch a minute tick past as students dance and laugh beneath the colored canopy. They have no idea what’s about to happen.

In all fairness, neither do I.

Three minutes till eight p.m. I tell myself I can do this. Tell myself it isn’t madness. Tell myself it will all be over soon. When I run out of things to tell myself, I step out of the shadows, expecting to see Owen, but he’s not there, so I head toward the quad. I only make it a few strides before a large hand wraps around my arm and drags me back into the dark and thought you were clever can’t get past me thought I wouldn’t see the pattern ricochets through my head. Before I can try to twist free, a metal cuff closes around my wrist, and I crane my neck to see Detective Kinney behind me.

“Mackenzie Bishop,” he says, cuffing my hands behind my back, “you’re under arrest.”