She always tells me she wishes I’d join a club, a sport, be a part of something. But I am a part of something.
“Maybe you could use some structure,” she adds. “Something to keep you busy.”
I almost laugh.
The sound crawls up my throat, a near hysterical thing, and I end up coughing to hold it back. Mom tuts and gets me a glass of water. Staying busy isn’t exactly a problem right now. But last time I checked, the Archive didn’t offer PE credits for catching escaped Histories.
“Yeah,” I say, a little too sharply. “I think you’re right.”
In that moment, I want to shout.
I want to show her what I go through.
I want to throw it in her face.
I want to tell her the truth.
But I can’t.
I would never.
I know better.
And so I do the only thing I can.
I walk out.
FIFTEEN
ANGELA PRICE is easy enough to find, and despite her being very upset, and mistaking me for her dead best friend, which of course only adds to her distress, I usher her back to Returns with little more than cunning lies and a few hugs.
Eric Hall is scrawny, albeit a little…hormonal, and I get him to the nearest Returns door with a giggle, a girlish look, and promises I’ll never have to keep.
By the time I finish hunting down and delivering Penny Walker, I feel like I really have gone for a run. I have a headache from reading walls, my muscles burn from being constantly on guard, and I think I might actually be able to sleep tonight. I’m making my way back toward the cluster of numbered doors when something catches my eye.
The white chalk circle on the front of one of the Returns doors has been disturbed, altered. Two vertical lines and one horizontal curve have been drawn into the chalk, turning my marker into a kind of…smiley face? I bring my hand to the door and close my eyes, and I’ve barely skimmed the surface of the memories when a form appears right in front of me, lean and dressed in black, his silvery-blond hair standing out against the dark.
Owen.
I let the memory roll forward, and his hand dances languidly across the chalk, drawing the face. And then he dusts the white from his fingers, puts his hands back in his pockets, and ambles down the hall. But when he reaches the end, he doesn’t continue around the corner. He turns on his heel and doubles back.
What is he doing here? He’s not tracking, not hunting. He’s…pacing.
I watch him come all the way down the hall, toward me, eyes on the floor. He walks until he’s inches from my face. And then he stops and looks up, his eyes finding mine, and I can’t shake the feeling that he sees me even though he’s alone in the past and I’m alone in the now.
Who are you? I ask his wavering form.
It doesn’t answer, only stares unblinking off into the dark beyond me.
And then I hear it.
Humming. Not the humming of the walls beneath my hands, not the sound of memories, but an actual human voice, somewhere nearby.
I pull away from the door and blink, the Narrows refocusing around me. The melody weaves through the halls, close. It’s coming from the same direction as my numbered doors, and I round the corner to find Owen leaning against the door with the I above its handle.
His eyes are closed. But when I step closer, they drift open and turn to consider me. Crisp and blue.
“Mackenzie.”
I cross my arms. “I was beginning to wonder if you were real.”
An eyebrow arches. “What else would I be?”
“A phantom?” I say. “An imaginary friend?”
“Well then, am I all that you imagined?” The very corner of his mouth curls up as he pushes off the door. “You really doubt my existence?”
I don’t take my eyes off him, don’t even blink. “You have a way of disappearing.”
He spreads his arms. “Well, here I am. Still not convinced?”
My eyes trail from the top of his white-blond hair over his sharp jaw, down his black clothes. Something’s off.
“Where’s your key?” I ask.
Owen pats his pockets. “I don’t have one.”
That’s not possible.
I must have said it aloud, because his eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”
“A Keeper can’t get into the Narrows without a key.…”
Unless he’s not a Keeper. I close the gap between us. He doesn’t retreat, not as I come toward him, and not as I press my hand flush against his chest and see…
Nothing. Feel nothing. Hear nothing.
Only quiet. Dead quiet. My hands fall away, and the quiet vanishes, replaced by the low hum of the hall.
Owen Chris Clarke isn’t a Keeper. He’s not even alive.
He’s a History.
But that can’t be. He’s been here for days, and he hasn’t started slipping. The blue of his eyes is so pale that I’d notice even the slightest change, and his pupils are crisp and black. And everything about him is level, normal, human. But he’s not.
Behind my eyes I see him break Hooper’s neck, and I take a step back.
“What’s wrong?” he says.
Everything, I want to say. Histories have a pattern. From the moment they wake up, they devolve. They become more distressed, frightened, destructive. Whatever they’re feeling at the moment of waking becomes worse and worse. But they never, ever become rational, or self-possessed, or calm. Then how does Owen behave like a person in a hallway rather than a History in the Narrows? And why isn’t he on my list?
“I need you to come with me,” I say, trying to picture the nearest Returns door. Owen takes a single small step back.
“Mackenzie?”
“You’re dead.”
His brow creases. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I can prove it to you.” Prove it to both of us. My hand itches for the knife that’s hidden against my leg, but I think better of it. I’ve seen Owen use it. Instead I grip Da’s key. The teeth are rusted but sharp enough to break the skin, with pressure.
“Hold out your hand.”
He frowns but doesn’t hesitate, offering his right hand. I press the key against his palm—putting a key in the hands of a History; Da would kill me—and drag it quick across his skin. Owen hisses and pulls back, cradling his hand to his chest.
“Alive enough to feel that,” he grumbles, and I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake until he looks down at his hand and his expression changes, shifts from pain to surprise.
“Let me see,” I say.
Owen turns his palm toward me. The slash across his hand is a thin dark line, the skin clearly broken, but the cut doesn’t bleed. His eyes float up to mine.
“I don’t…” he starts, before his gaze drops back to his hand. “I don’t understand…I felt it.”
“Does it still hurt?”
He rubs at the line on his palm. “No.” And then, “What am I?”
“You’re a History,” I say. “Do you know what that means?”
He pauses, looks down over his arms, his wrists and hands, his clothes. A shadow flits across his face, but when he answers, it’s with a tight “No.”
“You’re a record of the person you were when you were alive.”