“I left a ball of Oreo filling out for months one time,” says Wesley. “It never got hard. Lot of unnatural things in the world.”
A laugh escapes my lips, echoes off the granite and glass of the hollowed coffee shop. The laugh is easy, and it feels so, so good. And then Wes picks up the book, and I pick up my sponge, and he promises to read as long as I keep cleaning. I turn back to my work as he clears his throat and starts. I scrub the counter four times just so he won’t stop.
For an hour, the world is perfect.
And then I look down at the frosted blue of the soap, and my mind drifts, of all things, to Owen. Who is he? And what’s he doing in my territory? Some small part of me thinks he was a phantom, that maybe I’ve split myself into one too many pieces. But he seemed real enough, driving the knife into Hooper’s chest.
“Question,” I say, and Wes’s reading trails off. “You said you covered the Coronado’s doors. That this place was shared.” Wes nods. “Were there any other Keepers covering it?”
“Not since I got my key last year. There was a woman at first, but she moved away. Why?”
“Just curious,” I say automatically.
His mouth quirks. “If you’re going to lie to me, you’ll have to try a bit harder.”
“It’s not a big deal. There was an incident in my territory. I’ve just been thinking about it.” My words skirt around Owen and land on Hooper. “There was this adult—”
His eyes go wide. “Adult History? Like a Keeper-Killer?”
I nod. “I took care of it, but…”
He misreads my question about the Keepers on patrol.
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“Where?”
“In the Narrows. If you’re worried—”
“I’m not—” I growl.
“I could go with you, for protect—”
I lift the sponge. “Finish that word,” I say, ready to pitch it at his head. To his credit, he backs down, the sentence fading into a crooked smile. Just then, something scratches my leg. I drop the sponge back to the counter, tug off the plastic gloves, and dig out the list. I frown. The two names, Melanie Allen. 10. and Jena Freeth. 14. hover near the top of the page, but instead of a third name below them, I find a note.
Miss Bishop, please report to the Archive. —R
R, for Roland. Wesley is lounging in the chair, one leg over the side. I turn the paper for him to see.
“A summons?” he asks. “Look at you.”
My stomach sinks, and for a moment I feel like I’m sitting in the back of English class when the intercom clicks on, ordering me to the principal’s office. But then I remember the favor I asked of Roland, and my heart skips. Did he find the murdered girl?
“Go on,” says Wesley, rolling up his sleeves and reaching for my discarded plastic gloves. “I’ll cover for you.”
“But what if Mom comes in?”
“I’m going to meet Mrs. Bishop eventually. You do realize that.”
I can dream.
“Go on now,” he presses.
“Are you sure?”
He’s already taking up the sponge. He cocks his head at me, silver glinting in his ears. He paints quite a picture, decked in black, a teasing smile and a pair of lemon-yellow gloves.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, wielding the sponge like a weapon. “Doesn’t it look like I know what I’m doing?”
I laugh, pocket the list, and head for the closet in the back of the café. “I’ll be bac