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His eyes flash, so fast I think I might have imagined it, because his face stays impassive. “You don’t have a monopoly on worrying about the future, no matter what you might think. ” He throws down the dishtowel. “And at least I don’t need my father to tell me what I believe. ”
I spin away from him and walk down the hall to the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I cross to the bed and punch a pillow as hard as I can, lift it to my face and scream out my frustration, the cotton dry and bitter in my mouth.
I hide out in a bathroom stall in the basement of the courthouse until my watch says six. I usually leave around five, but I know David, the guard who let Victoria and me in to see Mark Laird, is on duty until six, and I want to find out where he takes his gun at the end of the day. Step three, find out where they keep the guns. That’s one of the facts my father needs to know if he’s going to make a successful bid for power. He’s always said he doesn’t want anyone to get hurt—other than the obvious people, of course—but having control of our government’s limited supply of weapons is going to be vital to his success.
After last night’s argument with Bishop, which left me awake half the night with scathing retorts burning unsaid on my tongue, I woke up determined to take a step forward on the path toward my father’s goal. I refuse to allow Bishop’s words to knock me off course. Callie always says that there’s family, and there’s everyone else. My father is family. And Bishop is everyone else.
I hear a door slam outside the bathroom and a set of heavy footsteps passes in the hall. I uncurl from where I’ve been crouching on the toilet seat, wincing at the tightness in my legs. I peek out the bathroom door and David is turning the corner at the far end of the hall, an area of the basement I’ve never been in before. I tiptoe after him barefoot, my sandals in my hand. It’s eerily quiet down here this time of day, the only sound a faint buzzing from lights above my head and the click of David’s receding footsteps.
I turn the corner cautiously and see David punching in numbers on a keypad set into the wall. When he’s done, he opens the door next to the keypad and goes inside, but he doesn’t let the door close behind him. I can hear his voice and the voice of another man coming from the room.
“Thank God it’s Friday, right?” the unknown man says. He sounds older, his voice gruff.
“You’re telling me,” David says. “Next week is going to be a long one. ”
“Putting them out?”
“On Wednesday. ”
The older man clucks his tongue, but without seeing his face I can’t tell what the noise indicates. Approval? Criticism? I hear the rustling of leather and the clank of metal followed by a heavy thud. David taking off his holster and setting it down. My heart rate picks up, a thin line of sweat beading at my brow. I clutch the folder I’m carrying tighter in my hand—my insurance policy in case I get caught.
“Go ahead and sign it back in,” the older man says.
I hear the scratch of pen on paper and I know I should leave, race down the hall the way I came, but I want more information. There’s a sound I can’t immediately identify, like the whir of a wheel. The turn mechanism on a safe maybe? Against my better judgment, I slide all the way over to the doorway and lean in a fraction of an inch, holding my breath. Both men have their backs to me and stand in front of an open walk-in safe. From where I stand, I can see rows of guns stretching back, floor to ceiling, at least twenty feet. There are handguns, like the one David is turning in and bigger guns, too. All sizes. Shotguns, and even a few assault rifles. These days guns are a theory for most people, not a reality, so they don’t know much about them. But my father taught us to identify the basic types of weapons. Although I’ve never shot a gun, I have no trouble imagining the heft of one in my hand. The older man goes into the safe and sets David’s gun on a metal rack with dozens of guns of the same type.
I move out of the doorway and race-walk away, back down the hall. Once I turn the corner, I take a second to slip my shoes back on and catch my breath. I memorize where I am and where the room is, close my eyes and picture every detail in my mind, try to burn the images of the guns I saw into my closed eyelids.
“Hey, Mrs. Lattimer,” David says, right over my shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
I jump, a startled squawk escaping. “Oh, hi, David,” I say, one hand on my chest where my heart is slamming against my ribs. “This case is closed, so I was just bringing the file down for storage, but I couldn’t find the right room. It’s so confusing. ” I give him a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Everything’s so white. ”
He cocks his head at me, points at the file. “What’s the case number?”
I hold it up for him to see. “That goes in Records Room B,” he says. “I don’t mind taking it for you. Technically only the guards are allowed down here unaccompanied. Next time just let us know and we’ll be happy to take any closed case files off your hands. ”
“Thank you,” I say, give a breathless little laugh as I hand over the file. “Sorry I didn’t follow protocol. Still learning. ”
“No problem,” David says.
“Now can you point me in the right direction for the stairwell? Otherwise I’ll be wandering around here for days. ”
David smiles, points down the hall. “Stairwell is right there. ”
“Thanks. Have a nice weekend. ” I practically run to the stairs and push through the door, resting my head against it once it’s closed behind me. There is one benefit of being a Lattimer—most people are easily fooled. They think because I’ve changed my name, they know where my allegiance lies. As if a few weeks can overcome a lifetime.
I hurry through the streets, anxious to reach the market before all the stalls shut down for the evening. It’s less crowded than the last time I was here, so even though there are fewer people, more of them notice my presence. Murmurs follow in the wake of my passing, like that childhood game where the whisper starts at the beginning of the line and by the time it reaches the end it’s transformed into something new and undecipherable. I was well-known on my side of town but not talked about. I was part of the fabric of people’s lives, the founder’s daughter. Here I am only a curiosity, and I hate it.
The man at the jam stall is beginning to pack up as I reach his table. I grab a jar of jam, not even looking at what type, and thrust it toward him. “I’d like to get this. ”
He glances up at me. “It’s three vouchers. ”
We don’t have cash anymore, after the war. People are paid for their employment with vouchers. Women who don’t work—the vast majority of females in Westfall—and children are given a certain number of vouchers per month as well.
“Okay. ” I dig into the messenger bag slung across my chest for some vouchers.
“Do you need a sack?”
“No. I can put it in here. ” I nestle the jar into the bottom of my bag.
“Anything else?” the man asks.
I glance around. There’s no one nearby. “Tell her I found where they’re kept,” I say, voice low. I walk away without looking back.
Euphoria sings through my blood as I walk home, my steps bouncing against the pavement. I imagine Callie’s face when my message is delivered. It means next to nothing to the jam man, but to Callie it will mean everything. She will tell my father and they’ll both be pleased with what I’ve accomplished so far. They’ll stop worrying that they’ve given me an assignment I’m not capable of completing.