I don’t want to confess.
I don’t want to confess because I don’t want to remember. But Wesley doesn’t have that choice, and the only reason he’s missing that time is because of me.
The truth is a messy thing, but I tell it.
We sit in the garden as the day stretches out, and I tell him everything. The easy and the hard. He listens, and frowns, and doesn’t interrupt, except to punctuate with a small “Oh” or “Wow” or “What?”
And after all of it, when he finally speaks, the only thing he says is, “Why couldn’t you come to me?”
I’m about to tell him about Roland’s orders, but that’s only a partial truth, so I start again.
“I was running away.”
“From what?”
“I don’t know. The Archive. That life. This. Ben. Me.”
“What’s so wrong with you?” he asks. “I quite like you.” And then, a moment later, he adds, “I just can’t believe I lost to a skinny blond guy with a knife.”
I laugh. Pain ripples through me, but it’s worth it. “It was a very big knife,” I say.
Silence settles over us. Wes is the one to break it.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
I close my eyes. “I don’t know, Wes. Everything hurts. I don’t know how to make it stop. It hurts when I breathe. It hurts when I think. I feel like I’m drowning, and it’s my fault, and I don’t know how to be okay. I don’t know if I can be okay. I don’t know if I should be allowed to be okay.”
Wesley knocks his shoulder against mine.
“We’re a team, Mac,” he says. “We’ll get through this.”
“Which part?” I ask.
He smiles. “All of it.”
And I smile back, because I want him to be right.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
TO MY FATHER, for liking this book more than the first one. And for wanting to tell everyone. And to my mother, for elbowing my father every time he did. To Mel, for always knowing what to say. And to the rest of my family, who smiled and nodded even when they weren’t sure what I was doing.
To my agent, Holly, for putting up with the often pathetic—but undeniably cute—animal pictures I use to explain my emotional state, and for believing in me and in this book.
To my editor, Abby, for building this world brick by brick beside me, then helping me tear it down and build it again out of stronger stone. And to Laura, for every bit of mortar added. It is a joy and an adventure.
To my freakishly talented cover designer, Tyler, and to my entire publishing family at Disney-Hyperion, for making me feel like I am home.
To my friends, who bolstered me with bribes and threats and promises, and followed through. Specifically, to Beth Revis, for her stern looks and gold stars when I needed them most. To Rachel Hawkins, for brightening every day with a laugh or a photo of Jon Snow. To Carrie Ryan, for mountain walks and long talks and for being an incredible person. To Stephanie Perkins, for shining so brightly when I needed a light. To Ruta Sepetys, for believing in me, often more than I believe in myself. To Myra McEntire, for dragging me back from the cliffs of insanity. To Tiffany Schmidt, for reading, and for loving Wesley so much. To Laura Whitaker, for the tea and good talks. To Patricia and Danielle, for the kindness and the care. And to the Black Mountain crew, who helped me meet my deadline and then thrust a flask and a jar of Nutella into my hands immediately afterward.
To my Liverpool housemates, for always wanting to help, whether it was making tea or creating quiet spaces so I could work. And to my New York housemates, for not giving me weird looks when they find me talking to myself, or rocking in corners, or when I burst into nervous laughter.
To the online community, for its constant love and support.
To the readers, who make every bad day good and every good day better.
And to Neil Gaiman, for the hug.