“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?”