The Unbound

I free my own key from under my collar and wrap the cord around my wrist. Wes smiles and gives a sweeping bow before stepping aside to let me pass.

“Be safe,” he says, holding the door open as I cross through.

I hear it swing shut behind me; by the time I look back, there is nothing but a smooth stone wall and a tiny keyhole filled with light. A shadow crosses it briefly, and then it’s gone, and when I press my ear to the wall, I imagine I can hear Wesley’s footsteps fading. I feel the scratch of letters on my list, but I don’t pull the paper out. The History will have to wait. It might not be happy or sane, but I’ll deal with it when I get back.

I head straight through the territory to the numbered doors, my mind already on Mr. Phillip’s house as I slot the key into the first door and step out onto the third floor hall, and stop.

Eric is leaning up against the faded yellow wallpaper, reading his book.

“If I didn’t know better,” he says, turning a page, “I’d think you were avoiding me.”

“Flat tire,” I say, sliding my ring back on as the Narrows door dissolves behind me.

“I’m sure.” He closes the book and pockets it.

“You know,” I say, “there’s a word for guys who lurk outside schools.”

Eric almost smiles. “When you sneak off, it makes one think you’re up to no good.”

“When you follow people without telling them why, it makes one think the same.”

Eric winks. “How are your hands?”

I hesitate. He sounds like he actually cares. Maybe I was wrong about him. I hold them up for his inspection.

“Good,” he says. “Fast healer.”

“Comes in handy.”

“Thank your genes, Miss Bishop. Your recovery rate comes with the territory, just like your sight.”

I look down at my mending knuckles. I’d never thought much about it before, but I guess it makes sense.

Just then, the stairwell door bangs open and a woman strides through, a Crew key dangling from her fingers. She’s tall, her black eyes fringed with dark lashes, a black ponytail plunging between her shoulders and down her back, straight and knife-sharp. In fact, everything about her is sharp, from the line of her jaw and her shoulders to her fingernails and the heeled boots at the ends of her long, thin legs. I recognize her from that day in the Archive.

Eric’s partner.

“There you are,” she says, eyes flicking between us.

“Sako, my love.” There’s a warmth to his voice that matches the cold in hers. “I’ve just been educating our young Keeper here. They don’t teach them anything these days.”

I’m willing to bet I know more than Eric thinks about the ways of the Archive, but I hold my tongue.

“Well, school’s out. We have work to do.”

Eric smiles, his eyes alight. “Wonderful.”

My chest loosens. Wonderful indeed. That should keep him off my tail long enough for me to pay Mr. Phillip’s house a visit.

He starts toward Sako, and I’m halfway through letting out a breath of relief when he stops and glances back at me.

“Miss Bishop?”

“Yeah?”

“Do try to stay out of trouble.”

I smile and spread my arms. “Do I look like a troublemaker to you?”

Sako snorts and vanishes into the stairwell, Eric on her heels.

The moment they’re gone, I duck into my apartment and unearth Da’s box of things from the back of my closet, rooting around until I find what I’m looking for: a lock pick set. I ditch the school skirt for a pair of jeans and pocket the metal picks, and I’m halfway back to the front door when my phone goes off.

My heart lurches.

In the second between hearing the sound and digging the phone out of my pocket, all my fears feel suddenly silly.

The text will be from Jason, telling me he’s fine, and he’s sorry his phone was dead, and that he couldn’t find the cord, and I’ll realize how much I was making out of nothing, piling theory on theory on theory when for once Da was wrong, and it was in fact all coincidence. Maybe Bethany just found the strength to leave her necklace along with the rest of her life. Maybe Eric was hired to protect me, not get me erased. Maybe Mr. Phillip… But that’s the problem. There is no explanation for Mr. Phillip.

And the text isn’t from Jason.

It’s from Lyndsey, just saying hi.

My hope collapses, because there are no easy outs—only more questions. And only one place to go. A place that has to have answers.

I take the steps two at a time all the way down to the lobby. Then I cut right down the hall beside the staircase, through the study, and into the garden. I hoist myself up and over the stone wall, hit the pavement in a crouch, and take off ru

FIFTEEN

DA AND I are walking back to his house one scorching summer day, eating lemon ices, when he gets a call. His phone makes that certain sound it only makes when he’s being called to a scene. Unofficially, of course—Da never does anything on the books—and he hands me the last of his lemon ice and says, “You go on, Kenzie. I’ll catch up.” So of course I dump both ices and follow at a distance. He makes his way three streets over to a house that’s roped off, but clearly unattended. He goes to the back door, not the front, and proceeds to stand there until I get within earshot. Then he says, without turning, “Your ears broken? I told you to go on home.”

But when he glances back, he doesn’t look angry, only amused. He knows I’m good at keeping my hands to myself, so he nods me up onto the step and tells me to watch closely. Then he pulls a set of picks from his back pocket and shows me how to line them up, one above the other, and lets me press my ear to the lock to listen for the clicks. Da says every lock will speak to you, if you listen right. When he’s done, he rests his hand on the knob and says, “Open sesame.” The door swings open.

He tugs off his boots and knots the laces and hangs them on his shoulder before stepping in. I do everything he does and nothing he doesn’t, and together we head inside.

It’s a crime scene.

I can tell because everything is very still.

Still in that undisturbed-on-purpose way.

I stand by the door and watch him work, amazed by the way he touches things without leaving any mark.

From the street, Mr. Phillip’s house looks almost normal.

The plants are still in their pots, the doormat still clean and even at the top of the steps, and I’m willing to bet that inside the door, several pairs of shoes are lined up against the wall. But the illusion of calm order is interrupted by the bright strip of yellow tape crisscrossing the front door and the police cruiser parked on the street.

I’m leaning against a fence a few houses down, assessing the situation. There’s one cop in the cruiser, but his seat’s kicked back and his hat is over his eyes. Halfway down the block a woman is walking a dog; other than that, the street is empty.

There’s a high wooden fence jutting out to either side of Mr. Phillip’s house, but his neighbor’s lawn is open, and I make my way across the street behind the cop car and into the yard, heading for their backyard like it’s my own. Luckily, they’re not home to contradict me—as soon as I’m out of the cop car’s line of sight, I press my ear to Mr. Phillip’s fence and listen. Nothing. The wood barely groans as I hoist myself up and over and land in a crouch in the manicured backyard.

Plastic has been taped over the two shattered windows at the back of the house, and the grass beneath them is sprinkled with glass, which is strange itself. Normally in a break-in, the windows would be broken inward, but the glass out here suggests the windows were broken from the inside out.

I keep my eyes on the ground, careful to step where others have obviously stepped rather than in the untouched patches.

When I reach the back door, I press my ear to the wood and listen. Still nothing—no voices, no footsteps, no sounds of life. I check the lock, but it doesn’t budge, so I pull the set of picks from my backpack and kneel in front of the lock. From there I maneuver the two metal bars until the lock shifts and clicks under my touch.