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“Now,” she says, setting them aside, “let’s see what you’ve been hiding.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
WHEN OWEN LOCKED me in the Returns room, my life—thrown onto the walls—began to compile, organize, and fold in. The sensation was strange and dull and numbing.
This is the opposite.
It’s like being turned inside out, exposed to things I don’t want to see, think, feel again. It’s all pulled out of the recesses of my mind and dragged violently into the light.
The pain tears through my head as I see Wesley in my bed my parents together on the couch looking at me like I’m already lost Cash handing me coffee Sako pi
Da used to say that if you wanted to hide something, you had to leave it sitting out, right there on the surface.
“When you bury it,” he said, “that’s when people go digging.”
I think about that the instant before it starts. I think about it while Agatha’s in my mind, the pain knifing through my scalp and down my spine, all the way into my bones. I think about it after—or between—while I’m lying on the cold antechamber floor, trying to remind my body how to breathe.
There is a moment, lying on that floor, when I just want it to be over. When I realize how tired I really am. When I think Owen’s right and this place deserves to burn. But I drag myself back together. It’s too early to stop fighting. I have to get out of here. I have to get back to the Outer. I have to get through tonight. Because one way or another, I will get through tonight.
I struggle to my hands and knees. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, several drops dripping from my nose to the antechamber floor.
“Get her back up,” orders Agatha. The sentinels drag me to my feet, and her hand wraps around my jaw. “Why is that traitorous History streaked across your life like paint?”
Owen. I tell the closest thing to the truth that I can manage. “Bad dreams.”
Her eyes hold mine. “You think I can’t tell the difference between nightmares and memories?”
And then I realize something with grim satisfaction: she can’t. Because I can’t. She may be able to look inside my mind, but she can only see what I see.
“I guess not,” I say.
“You think you can hide things from me,” she growls, her fingers ru
“I warned you, Roland,” she says without looking back, “that the next time you interrupted me I would have you reshelved.”
But the man in the doorway is not Roland. I’ve never seen him before. There is a kind of timeless poise to the warm brown hair that curls against his temples and the closely trimmed goatee that frames his mouth. A gold pin made of three vertical bars gleams on the breast pocket of his simple black suit.
“Unfortunately, my dear,” he says, his accent unplaceable, “you ca
Agatha tenses at the sound of the man’s voice, her hands sliding from my head.
“Director Hale,” she says. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
Everything in me goes cold. A director. One of the Archive’s leaders. And one of its executioners. Roland appears at the man’s shoulder, and his eyes find mine for an instant, darkening with worry, before he follows the other man—Hale—into the antechamber. The director crosses to Agatha’s side with calm, measured steps, each eliciting a small snap.
“Seeing as my presence has a noticeable impact on your vehemence,” he says, “perhaps it’s best to behave as though I am always in the room.” His steady green eyes slide from Agatha to me. “And I’d advise you to take a little more care with our things,” he says, still addressing her. The sentinels release me, and I will myself to stay on my feet. “Miss Bishop, I presume.”
I nod, even though the small motion sends a wave of pain through my head.
Director Hale turns back to Agatha. “Judgment?”
“Guilty,” says Agatha.
“No!” I shout, lunging toward her. The sentinels are there in an instant, holding me back. “I didn’t make the voids, and you know it, Agatha.”
Hale frowns. “Did she make them or not?”
Agatha holds his gaze a long moment. “She didn’t make the doors, but—”
“I will remind you,” cuts in Hale, “that I only granted you permission so that you could determine if she was behind the void incidents. If she is i
“Her mind is disturbed,” says Agatha, “and she’s hiding things from me.”
“I didn’t realize anyone could hide things from you, Agatha. Doesn’t that defeat your purpose?”
Agatha stiffens, caught between outrage and fear. “She’s involved, Hale. Of that I have no doubt. At least let me detain her until I solve this case.”
He considers, then waves a hand. “Fine.”
“No,” I say.
“Miss Bishop,” warns Hale, “you really are in no place to make demands.”
“I can solve the case,” I say, the words spilling out.
Hale arches a brow. “You think you can succeed where my assessor has failed?”
I find Agatha’s eyes. “I know I can.”
“You arrogant little—”
Hale holds up his hand. “I’m intrigued. How?”
My chest tightens. “You have to trust me.”
Hale smiles grimly. “I do not trust easily.”
“I won’t let you down,” I say.
“Do not let her go,” warns Agatha.
Hale arches an eyebrow. “I can always bring her back.”
“Give me tonight,” I say. “If I fail, I’m yours.”
Hale smiles. “You belong to the Archive, Miss Bishop. You’re already mine.” He nods to the sentinels. “Release her.”
Their hands fall away.
“Hale—” starts Agatha, but he turns on her.
“You have failed me, my dear. Why shouldn’t I give someone else a chance?”
“She has a traitor’s heart,” says Agatha. “She will betray you.”
“And if she does, she will pay for it.” His attention shifts to me. “Do you understand?”
I nod, my eyes escaping for a moment to Roland. “I do.”
And then, before anyone can change Hale’s mind, I turn my back on the director, Roland, Agatha, and the Archive, knowing that it won’t be the last time I step through this door, but if my plan doesn’t work, it will be the last time I walk out of it.
Sako is waiting. She slots her key and turns it, holding the door open for me. “I hope you know what you’re doing, little Keeper,” she hisses as she shoves me through.
I stagger forward into the yellow hall of the Coronado before one knee finally buckles beneath me. Pain continues to roll through my head and, desperate for a moment of true quiet, I tug my ring from the chain around my neck and slide it back on for the first time all day. The world dulls a little as I get up and return to the apartment.
“Where the hell—” starts Wes when I open the door. And then he sees me and pales. “Jesus, what happened?”
“It’s okay,” I say, holding up a hand before I realize there’s blood on it.
Wes hurries into the kitchen to get a wet towel. “Who did this to you?”
“Agatha,” I say, taking the cloth and wiping at my face. “But it’s okay,” I say. “I’m okay.”
“Like hell, Mackenzie,” he says, taking the towel from my hand and blotting my chin.
“It’s going to be okay,” I correct.
“How can you say that? Did she get what she wants? Is it over?”
I shake my head, even though the motion sends pain through it. “Not yet,” I say with a sinking feeling. “But it will be soon.” One way or another.