The Unbound

Would I?

I spend the rest of the day racking my brain for lost time, trying to remember if I’ve forgotten anything, which is as hard as it sounds. While Mr. Lowell goes on about social unrest, I scour my memory for patches of mental black ice, chunks of missing time, but I can’t find any.

I went straight home from Mr. Phillip’s.

I went straight home after meeting Bethany.

I came straight to school from the bike accident with Jason.

So why are they disappearing?

“These are the building blocks of revolution,” says Mr. Lowell, tapping the board. “It’s not enough to engender discontent, to weaken the people’s faith. A revolution isn’t a game of might so much as a game of skill. There has to be a strategy…”

It just doesn’t make any sense.

“…a method…”

I don’t know these people. We just crossed paths.

“…a plan of attack.”

And then a dark thought occurs to me.

What if I’m being set up? What if these people are being targeted because I crossed paths with them?

But why?

Roland’s words echo through my head.

For someone to deem you unfit, they would need a case. They would need evidence.

I swallow hard and dig my nails into my palms. I’m jumping again, drawing threads where maybe I shouldn’t; it’s getting me so tangled, I nearly miss the simple solution.

Start at the begi

Judge Gregory Phillip.

Nobody knows what happened to him, but I can find out. After all, the abduction happened inside his house, in a room with four walls. Walls that I can read.

All I have to do is break into the crime scene.

FOURTEEN

AS SOON AS the bell rings, I’m out the doors and making my way toward the parking lot. But I pull up short when I reach the gates and see Eric standing at the corner, past the last row of cars, pretending to read a book. Great. Now he shows up.

He hasn’t seen me yet, and I shuffle back several feet, bumping into students and getting caught in the tide of their grinding static as I retreat through the gates and out of his line of sight.

I don’t know what’s happening to these people, but whether or not Eric’s looking for proof, the last thing I need is the Archive watching while I break into a crime scene. I leave Dante in its place at the bike rack and go in search of another route home, wondering how long Eric will stick around waiting for me to show.

Mr. Phillip’s house is only a few blocks past the Coronado, so I can make it there on foot once I’m home. And luckily for me, I know someone who can get me there.

I just hope he’s still here.

I weave through the main building with its glass lobby and walls of former students, forcing my eyes to skim over Owen’s photo, and check the dining hall and the Court, but both are empty. Then I remember the boys dragging sports equipment toward the gym. Halfway down the path to the Wellness Center, I see a shoe-worn trail branching off the main one, and I follow it around the back of the building to find the outdoor fields.

There in the middle of the green, kicking a soccer ball around with a dozen other seniors, is Wesley.

All the guys are dressed in the same black-and-gold school clothes—half still in full uniform and half only in slacks—all moving and shouting, lobbing good-natured insults, calling for the ball. Even though I only get a look at his shirtless back, I recognize him instantly.

Not just by his height or the slope of his shoulders or the tapering muscles of his back—I vividly remember ru

There’s a set of low metal bleachers at the edge of the field, and I hop up onto a bench and dig the phone out of my bag. Still no text from Jason. I take a long, steadying breath, then dial his number. It rings and rings and rings, and as it does, the maybes play through my head.

Maybe Jason gave me the wrong number by accident.

Maybe Bethany dropped the necklace, like she did in the locker room.

Maybe Mr. Phillip made enemies.

Maybe—

And then the phone cuts to voice mail and I hear Jason’s voice telling me to leave a message, and the maybes come falling down. I slide the phone into my shirt pocket and notice Cash down on the field, less elegant than Wes, and louder. He beams as he steals the ball, bounces it into the air, and drives it toward a makeshift goal. But Wesley is there at the last moment, lunging into the ball’s path and plucking it out of the air with his hands. Cash laughs and shakes his head.

“What the hell was that, Ayers?” demands one of the other boys.

He shrugs. “We needed a goalie.”

“You can’t play all the parts,” calls Cash, and for some reason that makes me laugh. It’s the smallest sound—there’s no way anyone could have heard it—but at that moment, Wesley’s eyes flick up past the players to the metal bleachers. To me. He smiles, and punts the ball back into play before abandoning the pickup match and jogging over to the bleachers. A moment later, Cash ducks out, too.

“Hey, you,” says Wes, ru

Before I can tell him why I’m here, Cash catches up.

“Have to admit, Mackenzie,” says Cash, “you never struck me as a bleacher girl.”

I raise a brow. “What? I don’t look like a sports fan to you?”

Wes laughs. “Bleacher girls,” he says, gesturing down the metal rows to a cluster of green- and silver-striped girls, eyes trained hungrily on the pickup match and the collection of shirtless and otherwise sweaty seniors. A couple of faces have drifted over to me. Or rather, to Wes and Cash. I roll my eyes.

“No offense, boys, but I’m not here to fawn over you.”

Cash clutches a hand to the school emblem over his heart. “Hopes dashed.”

Wes brings his shoe up to the lowest bleacher and leans forward, resting his elbow on his knee. “Then what are you doing here?”

“I came to find you,” I say; this time, Cash seems to genuinely deflate a little.

Wes, on the other hand, gives me a strangely guarded look, as if he thinks it’s a trap. “Because…?”

“Because you told me to,” I lie, adding an impatient sigh for good measure. “You said I could borrow your Inferno, since it’s a better version than mine.”

Wesley relaxes visibly. Now that we’re both back in our element—both lying—he knows what to do. And I have to hand it to him. Even without knowing what I really want or where I’m going with this, he doesn’t miss a beat.

“If by ‘better version,’” he says, “you mean it’s marked up based on past pop quizzes, tests, and final exams, then yes. And sorry, I totally forgot. It’s in my locker.”

Cash frowns and opens his mouth, but Wes cuts him off.

“It’s not cheating, Mr. Student Council. Everyone knows they change the tests each year. It’s just a very thorough study aid.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” snaps Cash. “But thank you for clarifying.”

“Apologies, Cassius,” says Wesley, digging his bag out from under the bleachers. “Continue.”

Cash toes the grass. “I was just going to point out that Wes copied off me for half that class—”

“Lies,” says Wes, aghast. “False accusations, all.”

“—so if you want any help—”

“Really, as if I wouldn’t find more creative ways to cheat,” continues Wes.

“—I’m probably your best bet.”