The Unbound Page 12

  His words are calm, but his voice is laced with cracks and his brow is furrowed.

  “Besides,” he adds softly, crossing to the side table to fetch his watch, “I promised your grandfather I would look after you.” He slides the silver watch into his pocket. “That’s a promise I intend to keep.”

  As I follow him out the door and through the twisting, turning halls, I can’t help but remember that he made a promise to the Archive, too, the day of my initiation.

  If we do this, and she proves herself unfit in any way, said a member of the panel, she will forfeit the position.

  And if she proves unfit, said another, you, Roland, will remove her yourself.

  THIRTEEN

  ROLAND LEAVES ME at the mouth of the antechamber.

  I nod at the Librarian behind the desk—we’ve only met in passing—but she doesn’t even look up from the ledger, and again I find myself thinking that the book is very large and I am only one page. How many of those pages belong to Keepers? How many to Crew? And why have I never seen any of them in the Archive? I grew up here. Did no one else? Am I really so different? Is that why Patrick hates me?

  The eyes of the sentinels follow me out.

  On my way home, I dispatch a name on my list with little pretense. The boy takes one look at my battered knuckles and shrinks away, but doesn’t run, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say that, for once, the fear in his eyes felt gratifying. It is so much easier to handle him with intimidation than by spinning tales and earning trust.

  I roll the stiffness from my shoulders as I return home and shower. I’m out and pulling on my uniform when there’s a knock on my bedroom door, and Dad calls out, “You better hurry up or we’re going to be late.”

  I finish tugging on my shirt and nearly forget to tuck the key under my collar before opening the door. “What are you talking about?”

  Dad flashes his keys. “I’m driving you to school.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I don’t mind,” he says.

  “I do.”

  He sighs and heads for the kitchen to fill his travel mug with coffee. “I thought you might be nervous about riding your bike.”

  “Well, I’m not.” I frown and follow. “And isn’t there a saying about horses and getting back on?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, swinging my bag over my shoulder. His eyes go to my knuckles.

  “And you’re sure the bike’s in working shape?”

  “The bike is fine, too. But if you’re so worried, why don’t you come check it out?”

  That seems to pacify him a little, and we head downstairs. I duck into the café and grab a coffee and a muffin while he looks over Dante. Bishop’s is busy in the morning, and Mom doesn’t even see me come or go. Berk passes me a to-go cup and a paper bag and shoos me away.

  “Well, it looks all right,” says Dad, brushing off his hands as I join him on the curb. “You sure you don’t want a lift?”

  “Positive,” I say, swinging my leg easily up over the bike to show him how comfortable I feel. “See? Just like a horse.”

  Dad frowns. “Where’s your helmet?”

  “My what?” Dad’s look turns positively icy, and I’m opening my mouth to say I don’t need it when I realize that that’s probably a bad line after last night; instead I tell him where it’s been since the day he bought it for me. “Under my desk.”

  “Don’t. Move.” Dad vanishes back through the doors and I sigh and stand there, straddling the bike with my coffee balanced on the handlebars. I give the street a quick scan, but there’s no sign of Eric. I don’t know whether that makes me feel better or worse, now that I know he’s real. I still don’t know why he’s been following me. Maybe it’s standard procedure. A checkup. Or maybe he’s looking for evidence. Cracks.

  Dad reappears and tosses me the helmet. I pluck it out of the air and snap it on. At least it’s not pink or covered in flowers or anything.

  “Happy now?” I ask. Dad nods, and I pedal off before he can decide the coffee on my handlebars is a safety hazard.

  The morning’s cool, and I breathe deeply and try to shake off Roland’s worry and Dad’s distrust as the world blurs past. I’m halfway to school when I round the corner and hop onto a stretch of sidewalk that lines a park, stretching ahead a couple of blocks to form a straight and empty path. In a moment of weakness—or cockiness, or fatigue, maybe—I let myself close my eyes. It’s nothing more than a long blink, a second, two tops, but when I open them there’s just enough time to see the runner cut out of the park and into my way, and not enough time to swerve.

  The collision is a tangle of handles and wheels and limbs, and we both go down hard on the concrete. My head bounces off the sidewalk. The helmet absorbs the worst of it—I’m sure Dad would be thrilled—and I manage to free my leg from under the bike and get to my feet, pain burning through my sleeve and sweatpants. I decide not to look at the damage.

  A few feet away, the runner is slower to recover. He gets to his hands and knees and pauses, checking himself before he stands all the way up. I hurry over and offer my hand since I’m the one who technically hit him, even though he’s the one who came out of nowhere.

  “Are you all right?” I ask. “Anything broken?”

  “Nah, I’m okay,” he says, getting to his feet. He’s not very old—maybe twenty—and he’s a little scuffed, but looks otherwise unscathed. Except for the fact that he’s covered in my coffee.

  He looks down and notices it for the first time.

  “Huh,” he says. “I smell better than I did before.”

  I groan. “I’m really sorry.”

  “I think it was my fault,” he says, rolling his neck.

  “I know it was,” I say. “But I’m still sorry I hit you. You came out of nowhere.”

  He rubs his head. “I guess I got a little lost in the music,” he says, gesturing to the earbuds hanging around his neck. He smiles, but seems a little unsteady on his feet.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  He nods cautiously. “Yeah, yeah, I think so.…”

  “Do you know your name?”

  His brow crinkles. “Jason. Do you know your name?”

  “I didn’t hit my head.”

  “Well, can I know your name?” he asks. I think he might be flirting with me.

  “Mackenzie. Mackenzie Bishop.” I hold up four fingers. “How many fingers do you see?”

  “Seven.” I’m about to tell him he needs a doctor when he says, “Kidding. Kidding. What happened to your hands, Mackenzie?”

  “A bike accident,” I say without thinking. “You shouldn’t joke when people are trying to determine if you’re okay.”

  “Wow, how many bike accidents have you been in this week?”

  “Bad week,” I tell him, righting Dante. The bike’s a little bruised, but it’ll work; I’m relieved, because if I’d broken it, I don’t know what I would have told my parents. Not the truth. Even though it is the truth this time.

  “You’re pretty.”

  “You hit your head.”

  “That is true. But you’re probably still pretty.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Mackenzie Bishop,” he says, sounding out every syllable. “Pretty name.”

  “Yeah.” I drag my phone from my pocket to check the time. If I don’t go, I’m going to be late. “Look, Jason, are you going to be okay?”

  “I’m okay. But I feel like we should trade insurance info or something. Do they have that, for bike-body collisions? Do you have bike insurance? If you’re getting into this many accidents maybe you should—”

  “Do you have a phone?”

  He looks at me like he doesn’t know what that is. Or why I’m asking.

  “A phone,” I say again, “so I can give you my number. So you can text me when you get home. So I know you’re okay.”

  He pats his pockets. “I don’t run with it.”

  I shuffle through my b
ackpack and dig out a Sharpie and a scrap of paper and write my number on it. “Here. Take it. Text me,” I say, trying to make it as clear as possible that this is a here’s-my-number-civic-duty and not a here’s-my-number-call-me-hotstuff kind of situation.

  Jason takes the piece of paper, and I’m about to get back on the bike when he plucks my phone from my hand and starts typing away. When he passes it back, I see he’s programmed his number in with the title Jason the runner you ran over.

  “Just to be safe,” he says.

  “Yeah, okay, sure,” I reply, and before the moment can get any more awkward, I climb back on Dante—horses, falling off, getting back on, etc.—and pedal off. (I wish Eric could have witnessed my stellar Samaritan behavior and reported that back to the Archive, but of course now he’s nowhere to be seen.) I look back once at the corner to make sure Jason is still standing (he is), and then I head to school.

  By the time I get there, the lot is filling up and Wesley is leaning back against the bike rack. Another girl—a silver-striped one this time—is hanging off his shoulder, whispering in his ear. Whatever she’s saying, it must be good; he’s looking down, chewing his lip, and smiling. My chest constricts, even though it shouldn’t because I shouldn’t care. He can flirt if he wants to. I hop down from the bike and walk it over. His eyes drift lazily up to find mine, and he straightens.

  The girl on his shoulder nearly falls off.

  I can’t help but grin. He says something, and her flirty little smile fades. By the time I reach the bike rack, she’s vanished through the gates—but not before shooting a dark look my way.

  “Hey, you,” he says cheerfully.

  “Hey,” I say; then, because I can’t help myself, I look around and add, “Where’s Cash?”

  The blow sticks, and Wesley’s good humor thins. Then his eyes wander down to my hands, and it dissolves entirely. “What happened?”

  I almost lie. I open my mouth to feed him the same line I’ve fed everyone else, but I stop. I have a rule about lying to Wesley. I don’t do it anymore. I can justify evasions and omissions, but I won’t lie outright—not after what happened this summer. But I’m also not going to relive last night here on the steps of Hyde, so I say, “It’s a funny story. I’ll tell you later.”

  “I’ll hold you to it,” he says, and then he looks past me. “There you are. Mackenzie here was beginning to worry.”

  I turn to find Cash striding up the curb, a set of car keys in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

  “Morning, lovelies,” he says, opening the bag and producing three coffees in a to-go tray. Wesley’s eyes light up at the sight of the third drink. He reaches for it, but before his fingers touch the paper cup, Cash pulls it out of reach.

  “You can’t say I never do nice things for you.”

  “Statement retracted.”

  Cash offers me one of the coffees, and I take a long, savoring swallow, since I only got a taste of this morning’s cup before I spilled it all over Jason the runner.

  “Sorry for the delay,” says Cash. “They kept getting the order wrong.”

  “How hard is it to make three black coffees?” asks Wes.

  “Not hard at all,” says Cash. “But the order was for two black coffees”—he takes the second coffee—“and a soy hot chocolate caramel whip.” He turns the tray in his hand, offering Wesley the last, fancy drink.

  Wes scowls.

  Cash continues to hold out the tray. “If you’re going to be a girl about these things, you’re going to get a girly drink. Now be gracious.”

  “My hero,” grumbles Wesley, reaching for the cup.

  “And don’t pretend you don’t like it,” adds Cash. “I distinctly remember you ordering it last winter.”

  “Lies.”

  Cash taps his temple. “Photographic memory.”

  Wesley mumbles something unkind into his soy hot chocolate.

  The three of us linger at the gates of Hyde, sipping our drinks and watching the flow of students, enjoying the time before the bell rings. And then Cash breaks the peace with one small question, lobbed at Wes.

  “Did you hear about Bethany?”

  The coffee freezes in my throat. “The blond senior? What about her?”

  Cash looks surprised by the fact I know who she is. “Her mom said she never came home yesterday. They haven’t been able to find her anywhere.” He looks at Wes. “You think she finally ran away?”

  “I guess it’s possible,” he says. He looks upset.

  “You okay?” asks Cash. “I know you two—”

  “I’m fine,” Wes cuts him off, even though I’d really like to hear the end of that sentence. “Just sorry to hear it,” he adds.

  “Yeah,” adds Cash. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask.

  Behind my eyes, the memory from the pendant echoes: a distraught Bethany clutching the steering wheel, willing herself to go. But what happened? What led up to that moment?

  Cash hesitates, then looks to Wes, who says only, “She was having a hard time at home.”

  And then, before any of us can say more, the bell rings, and we pour through the gates with the rest of the students. Cash and Wes branch off and the conversation dies, but the questions follow me to class. Did Bethany really run away? Why? And if she did, why did she wait until now? She had all summer. What was it about yesterday?

  A darker thread runs through my thoughts.

  First Mr. Phillip, and now Bethany.

  They both have something in common. Me.

  A sinking feeling follows me through the halls and into class.

  Da said you had to see patterns but not go searching for them. Am I drawing lines where they shouldn’t be, or am I missing something right in front of me?

  No text from Jason.

  I check my phone before Precalc and then again before Lit Theory. Finally, on my way to Wellness, I shoot him a message.

  Did you get home safe?

  I try to calm my nerves as I shove my phone and my bag into my locker, aware that the noise in the room is different. It’s still loud, still full of slamming metal and the shuffle of bodies and voices, but those voices aren’t full of laughter. They’re full of gossip, and gossip is the kind of thing told in fake whispers rather than shouts, lending the locker room a kind of false quiet.

  I only catch snippets of the gossip itself, but I know who it’s about.

  Bethany.

  Popular girl. Small school. The students are latching on to the story. A clump of juniors thinks she was kidnapped for ransom. Another thinks she ran away with a boy. A handful of seniors echo Wes and Cash, saying they’re not surprised, after what happened—but they never say exactly what happened. Instead they trail off into silence. One junior thinks she got pregnant. Another thinks she’s dead. A few talk under their breaths and shoot dirty looks at the girls who don’t have the grace to gossip quietly.

  Whatever the story, one thing’s for sure: Bethany is missing.

  “I don’t think it’s that simple,” says Amber, turning the corner.

  “You can’t turn everything into a crime,” says Safia, following on her heels. “It’s morbid.”

  They slump down onto the bench beside me while I tug on my workout shirt, wishing it were long-sleeved so I could hide my cut-up knuckles. Instead I shove my hands into the pockets of my workout shorts.

  “I’m just saying—there’s evidence, and it contradicts.”

  “Admit it, you just want it to be more dramatic than it is.”

  “I’d say it’s already dramatic enough. Bethany’s life was like a bad soap opera.”

  “Ugh,” says Safia, shuddering. “You just said was. Like she’s dead. Don’t do that.”

  “You’re talking about that girl who ran away?” I ask as casually as possible.

  Amber nods. “If she ran away.”

  I frown. “What makes you think she didn’t?”

  “Because that wouldn’t be as exciting
,” says Safia, rolling her eyes.

  Amber waves her away. “There’s evidence that she was going to run away, I’ll give you that. But there’s also evidence that something happened. That she changed her mind.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, closing my locker.

  “Well, my dad told me that—”

  “They got your dad involved? Already?”

  “Not officially,” says Amber. “But he knows Bethany’s mom, so he agreed to look into it.”

  My chest tightens. Make that two things the cases have in common. Me. And the detective. It’s nothing, I tell myself as I follow Amber and Safia into the gym. It’s nothing, because I didn’t do anything. I was nice. I was helpful. I made two people’s days better. And those two people just happened to disappear.

  “Anyway,” says Amber, “Bethany’s backpack and purse were missing, too. But the car was still there, and there was a suitcase tucked in the back, and the car door was open. Either she was grabbed, or she got halfway through leaving and then decided to just walk away instead.”

  She and Safia head for the mats, and even though I want to run—want to do something to clear my head and calm my nerves—I follow.

  “Which would be smart,” Amber is saying, “if she really wanted to disappear, since cars are so easy to track.”

  “Why is everyone convinced she wanted to disappear?” I ask, sinking down onto the mat. “People keep saying they’re not surprised, that it was only a matter of time. What do they mean?”

  Amber sighs. “Over the summer, my dad was called out to Bethany’s house on a noise complaint. There’d been a screaming match, and when he got there, he found Bethany in the driveway with all her things.”

  “Back up,” says Safia. “You’re skipping all the good bits.” She turns to me. “Okay, so Bethany’s mom is a leech. That’s what we call it when you only marry someone for their money. Then Beth’s dad’s company hits a bump or something, and her mom drops him like that.” She snaps her fingers. “Takes as much as she can, including the house, and then turns around and finds this new beau to leech off of. He moves in after, like, three weeks.”