The Unbound

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 i

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. Tu

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.