Aren’t you tired?
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I don’t realize until Mom presses a hand to my face that there are tears streaming down it. “I’m sorry,” I whisper under the sound of her noise against my skin.
Fourteen stitches.
That’s how many it takes to close the cut in my arm (the marks on my right hand from holding the glass are shallow enough to be taped). The nurse—a middle-aged woman with steady hands and a stern jaw—judges me as she sews, her lips pursed like I did it for attention. And the whole time, my parents are standing there, watching.
They don’t look angry. They look sad, and hurt, and scared—like they don’t know how they went from having two functioning children to one broken one. I open my mouth to say something—anything—but there’s no lie I can tell to make this better, and the truth will only make everything worse, so the room stays silent while the nurse works. Dad keeps his hand on Mom’s shoulder, and Mom keeps her hand on her phone, but she has the decency not to call Colleen until the nurse finishes the stitches and asks them to step outside with her. There’s a window in the room, and through the blinds I can see them walk away down the hall.
They’ve made me wear one of those blue tie-waisted smocks, and my eyes travel over my arms and legs silently assessing not only the most obvious damage, but the last four years’ worth of scars. Each one of them has a story: skin scraped off against the stone walls of the Narrows, Histories fighting back tooth and nail. And then there are the scars that leave no mark: the cracked ribs and the wrist that won’t heal because I keep rolling it, listening to the click click click. But contrary to Colleen’s theories, the cut along my arm—the one now hidden under a bright white bandage—is the first I’ve ever given myself.
I didn’t, I think. I don’t—
“Miss Bishop?” says a voice, and my head snaps up. I didn’t hear the door open, but a woman I’ve never seen before is standing in the doorway. Her dirty blond hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, but her perfect posture and the way she pronounces my name send off warning bells in my head. Crew? Not one I’ve ever met, but the ledger’s full of pages, and I only know a few. Then I read the name tag on her slim-cut suit, and I almost wish she were Crew.
Dallas McCormick, Psychologist. She has a notebook and a pen in one hand.
“I prefer Mackenzie,” I say. “Can I help you?”
A smile flickers on her face. “I should probably be the one asking that question.” There’s a chair beside the bed, and she sinks into it. “Looks like you’ve had a rough day,” she says, pointing to my bandaged arm with her pen.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Dallas brightens. “Why don’t you tell me?”
I stare at her in silence. She stares back. And then she sits forward, and the smile slides from her face. “You know what I think?”
“No.”
Dallas is undeterred. “I think you’re wearing too much armor,” she says. I frown, but she continues. “The funny thing about armor is that it doesn’t just keep other people out. It keeps us in. We build it up around us, not realizing that we’re trapping ourselves. And really, you end up with two people. That shiny metal one…”
The girl of steel.
“…and the human one inside, who’s falling apart.”
“I’m not.”
“You can’t be two people. You end up being neither.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you made that cut on your arm,” she says simply. “And I know that sometimes people hurt themselves because it’s the only way to get through the armor.”
“I’m not a cutter,” I say. “I didn’t mean to do this to myself. It was an accident.”
“Or a confession.” My stomach turns at the word. “A cry for help,” she adds. “I’m here to help.”
“You can’t.” I close my eyes. “It’s complicated.”
Dallas shrugs. “Life is complicated.”
Silence settles between us, but I don’t trust myself to say any more. Finally Dallas stands back up and tucks the notebook she brought and never opened under her arm.
“You must be tired,” she says. “I’ll come back in the morning.”
My chest tightens. “They finished stitching me up. I thought I’d be able to go.”
“Such a rush,” she says. “Got somewhere to be?”
I hold her gaze. “I just hate hospitals.”
Dallas smiles grimly. “Join the club.” Then she tells me to get some rest and slips out.
Yeah, rest. Since that seems to be making everything better.
Dallas leaves, and I’m about to look away when I see a man stop her in the hall. Through the blinds, I watch them talk for a moment, and then he points at my door. At me. His gold hair glitters, even under the artificial hospital lights. Eric.
Dallas crosses her arms as they talk. I can’t read her lips, so I can only imagine what she’s telling him. When she’s done, he glances my way. I expect him to look smug, like Sako—the Keeper is digging her own grave—but he doesn’t. His eyes are dark with worry as he nods once, turns, and walks away.
I bring my hand to my chest, feeling my key through the too-thin hospital smock as the nurse appears with two little pills and a white paper cup filled with water.
“For pain,” she says. I wish I could take them, but I’m worried that “for pain” also means “for sleep.” Thankfully she leaves them on the table, and I pocket them before my parents can see.
Mom spends the rest of the night on the phone with Colleen, and Dad spends it pretending to read a magazine while really watching me. Neither one of them says a word. Which is fine with me, because I don’t have words for them right now. When they finally drift off, Dad in a chair and Mom on a cot, I get up. My clothes and cell are sitting on a chair, and I get changed, pocket the phone, and slip out into the hall. The hospital is strangely quiet as I pad through it in search of a soda machine. I’m just loading a bill into the illuminated front of one when I feel the scratch of letters in my pocket and pull out the list as a fourth name adds itself to my list.
Four names.
Four Histories I can’t return. Roland’s warning echoes in my head.
Just do your job and stay out of trouble, and you’ll be okay.
I take a deep breath and dig my cell out of my other pocket.
Hey, partner in crime.
A second later, Wesley writes back.
Hey, you. I hope your night’s not as boring as mine.
I wish.
I think about typing the story into the phone, but now is not the time to explain.
I need a favor.
Name it.
I chew my lip, thinking of how to say it.
A few kids are up past their bedtimes. Tuck them in for me?
Sure thing.
Thanks. I owe you.
Is everything okay?
It’s a funny story. I’ll tell you tomorrow.
I’ll hold you to it.
I pocket the phone and the list and dig the soda out of the machine, slumping onto a bench to drink it. It’s late and the hall is quiet, and I replay Judge Phillip’s crime scene in my head. I know what I saw. The void was real. I have to assume there are two more: one in Bethany’s driveway and another wherever Jason vanished. Three innocent people gone. If there’s any upside to my being stuck here, it’s that no one else should get hurt.
I finish the soda and get to my feet. The local anesthetic has worn off, and the pain in my arm is bad enough to make me consider the pills in my pocket. I throw them away to be safe and head back to my room and climb into bed. I’m not feeling anywhere close to sleep, but I’m also not feeling anywhere close to normal. I think of Lyndsey, who always makes me feel a little bit closer to okay, and text her.
Are you awake?
Stargazing.
I picture her sitting on her roof, cross-legged with a cup of tea and an upturned face.
You?
Grounded.
Shocker!
That I did something wrong?
No. That you got caught. ;)
I let out a small, sad laugh.
Night.
Sleep sweet.
The clock on the wall says eleven forty-five. It’s going to be a long night. I unfold the list in my lap and watch as, over the next hour, the names go out like lights.
EIGHTEEN
IT HAPPENS AT FIVE A.M.
At first I think it’s just another name, but I soon realize it’s not. It’s a note. A summons. The words write themselves onto the Archive paper.
Please report to the Archive. —A
I know what the A stands for. Agatha. It was only a matter of time. Even with Wesley picking up my slack in the Narrows, he can’t cover the incident with the cops, or this. Did Eric tell her I was here? If she knows, then she knows I can’t answer the summons. Is that what she’s counting on? Denying a summons from the Archive is an infraction. Another tally against me.
I’m reading the note for the seventeenth time, trying to decide what to do, when the door opens and Dallas comes in. I force myself to fold the paper and put it away as she says good morning and introduces herself to my parents, then asks them to wait outside.
She sinks into the chair by the bed. “You look like hell,” she says—which doesn’t strike me as the most professional way to start, but at least it’s accurate.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say. “They’re going to let me go home today, right?” I ask, trying to mask the urgency in my voice.
“Well,” she says, tilting her head back, “I suppose that’s up to me. Which means it’s up to you. Do you want to talk?”
I don’t respond.
“Do you dislike me because I’m standing in your way,” she asks, “or because I’m a therapist?”
“I don’t dislike you,” I say evenly.
“But I’m both,” observes Dallas. “And most people generally dislike both.”
“I dislike hospitals,” I explain. “The last time my family was in one, my brother had just been killed by a car on his way to school. And I dislike therapists because my mother’s told her to throw out all of his things. To help her move on.”
“Well then,” she says, “I’m afraid your mother’s therapist and I wouldn’t get along.”
“That’s a solid tactic,” I say.
Dallas raises a brow. “Excuse me?”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend. It’s a good approach.”
“Why, thank you,” she says cheerfully. “You get away with this a lot, don’t you? Deflecting.”
I pick at the bandages on my hand. The shallow cuts are healing well. “Most people would rather talk about themselves anyway.”
She smiles. “Except therapists.”
Dallas doesn’t act like a shrink. There’s no “How does that make you feel?” or “Tell me more” or “Why do you think that is?” Talking with her is like a dance or a sparring match: a combination of moves, verbal actions and reactions strung together. Her eyes go to my arm. They took the bandages off so it could breathe.
“That looks like it hurts.”
“It was a nightmare,” I say carefully. “I thought someone else was doing it to me, and then I woke up and it was still there.”
“A pretty dangerous twist on sleepwalking.”
Her voice is light, but there’s no mockery in it.
“I’m not crazy,” I whisper.
“Crazy never crossed my mind,” she says. “But I was talking to your parents, about Da, and about Ben, and about this, and it seems like you’ve been exposed to a lot of trauma for someone your age. Have you noticed that?”
Have I? Da’s death. Ben’s murder. Owen’s attack. Wesley’s stabbing. Carmen’s assault. Archive secrets. Archive lies. Violent Histories. Voids. Countless scars. Broken bones. Bodies. Tunnel moments. Nightmares. This.
I nod.
“Some people crumble under trauma,” she says. “And some people build armor. And I think you’ve built some amazing armor, Mackenzie. But like I said last night, it can’t always protect you from yourself.” She sits forward. “I’m going to say something, and I want you to listen carefully, because it’s kind of important.”
She reaches out and brings her hand to rest over mine, and her noise is like an engine, low and humming and steady. I don’t pull away.
“It’s okay to not be okay,” she says. “When you’ve been through things—whatever those things are—and you don’t allow yourself to not be okay, then you only make it worse. Our problems will tear us apart if we try to ignore them. They demand attention because they need it. Now, are you okay?”
Before I even realize it, my head is turning side to side. Dallas smiles a little.
“See? Was that so hard to admit?”
She gives my hand a small squeeze, and my gaze drops to her fingers. I stiffen.
Dallas has a dent on her ring finger.
“Divorced,” she says, catching my look. “I’m starting to think the mark won’t ever fade.”
She pulls away and rubs at the spot between her knuckles, and I force myself to breathe, to remember that normal people wear rings, too—and that normal people take them off. Besides, her sleeves are pushed up and her forearms are free of Crew marks.
Dallas gets to her feet.
“I’m going to release you, on the condition that you attend counseling at Hyde. Will you do that for me?”
Agatha’s summons burns a hole in my pocket. “Yes,” I say quickly. “Fine. Okay.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” asks Mom when Dallas tells her the news. “I mean, she tried to…”
“Not to be crude, ma’am,” says Dallas, “but if she’d wanted to kill herself, she would have cut down the road, not across the street. As it is, she’s several blocks up.”
Mom looks horrified. I almost smile. She’s certainly no Colleen.
The nurse rewraps my left arm, and I change back into my school shirt, tugging the sleeve down over the bandage. I can’t hide the tape from the glass on my right palm, but that might work to my advantage. Misdirection. The worst of last night’s self-pity is gone, and right now I need to focus on surviving long enough to find out who’s framing me. Owen hasn’t won yet, I think, and then I remind myself that Owen didn’t do this. I did. Maybe Dallas was right. Maybe I need to stop denying I’m broken and work on finding the pieces.
Speaking of Dallas, she gives me a small salute on the way out and tells me to loosen the armor. The nurse who stitched and bandaged me up seems surprised by Dallas’s order to release me, but doesn’t question it—only fires off cleaning instructions and tells my parents to keep an eye on me and make sure I get some rest. She leans in and confides in my mother, loud enough for me to hear, that she doesn’t think I ever went to sleep.
Great.
There’s no sign of Eric or Sako in the hospital lobby or in the lot, and I realize with a sinking feeling that their faces are the only two I’d recognize. I know that a Crew member made the void, but I don’t know which one. The Archive keeps its members isolated—each an island—but that means I don’t know how many Crew there are in my branch, let alone what they look like.
“Come on, Mac,” calls Dad, and I realize I’m standing on the sidewalk staring at the street.
On the drive home, I feel the scratch of more letters in my pocket, and by the time we get back to the Coronado, the summons has repeated itself on the page, the letters darker, as if someone’s pressing down harder on the ledger. I turn the paper over and write the words unable to report, watching as they bleed into the page. I wait for a reply, a pardon, but the original summons only rewrites itself on the page. The message is clear, but I’m not allowed to close my bedroom door or go to the bathroom without an escort, let alone slip off to the Archive for a good old-fashioned interrogation. I don’t even have the excuse of school, since it’s Saturday. When I ask if I can go for a walk to get some fresh air, Mom loo
ks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
And maybe I have, but after an hour of trying to do homework in spite of the hovering and heavy quiet, I can’t take it anymore. I break down and text Wesley.
Save me.
Mom won’t stop pacing, and Dad finally cracks and sends her down to the café to work off some of her stress. Five minutes after that, there’s a knock on the door and Wesley’s there with a bag of pastries and a book, looking like himself—well, his summer self: black jeans, lined eyes, spiked hair—for the first time in weeks. When Dad answers the door, I watch the war between what he’s supposed to say—No visitors—and what he wants to say—Hi, Wes! What finally comes out is, “Wesley, I’m not sure now’s a good time.”
Even though Wes frowns and asks, “Has something happened?” I can tell he’s not totally in the dark. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s aware of the part where I got picked up by the cops, but not the part where I landed myself in the self-harm section of the hospital. His eyes go to my bandaged hand, and I can see the questions in them.
Dad casts a glance back at the table where I’m nursing a cup of coffee and trying not to look as tired as I feel and says, “Actually, why don’t you come in?”
Wesley takes a seat next to me, and Dad stands by the door, clearly debating his next move.
“Dad,” I say, reaching out and taking Wesley’s hand with my unbandaged one. The steady beat of his rock music fills my head. “Could we have a moment?”
Dad hovers there, looking at us.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise.
“I’ll keep her out of trouble, Mr. Bishop,” says Wes.
Dad smiles sadly. “I’m holding you to that,” he says. “I’ll go down and check on your mom. You’ve got ten minutes.”
When the door closes, Wes gives my fingers a small squeeze before letting go. “Did you hurt your wrist again?” he asks, nodding at my other hand.