“Is this why they locked me out of your territory?”
I nod, and he lets out a low oath before pulling himself together. “What they’re doing,” he says, shaking his head as if to clear it, “I’m sure it’s just protocol.” He doesn’t sound like he believes it, but I can tell he wants to.
“I’m sure,” I say. I wish I could believe it, too.
He steps up to the window, gripping the sill. After a long breath, he says, “Are you sure you can climb?”
“I’ll manage,” I say stiffly.
“Mac—”
“I’ll manage, Wes. Just show me what to do.”
He sits on the sill and brings one leg up, resting his shoe on the wood as he takes hold of the open window over his head and then, in one fluid motion, stands, coming to his feet outside. He keeps one hand curled under the window for support as he shimmies to the side and steps off the sill and onto a thin outcrop of rock, vanishing from sight. When I stick my head out, I see him scaling the side of the Coronado, thin bit of stone to thin bit of stone until he reaches an open window roughly ten feet overhead. He hoists himself up into the window and sits there, elbows on his knees, looking down at me.
“Tell me that was more fun than it looks,” I say.
“Loads,” says Wes as I take a deep breath and climb out onto the frame, following his lead. My arm aches dully as I grip the bottom edge of the window for support, eyeing the surfacing stones that stand between me and 4F. They are not flat and smooth but jagged, worn away by time and weather like the gargoyles on the roof. Each is somewhere between a brick and a cinder block; as I reach for the first one, a pebble crumbles off overhead and skitters down the wall.
I am going to die. I always thought that if something in the Coronado killed me, it would be the elevators, but no. It will be this.
I take a deep breath and step off the windowsill onto the stones. I will myself not to look down; instead I focus on the number of stones between me and safety, counting down. Eight…seven…six…five…four…three…
“This isn’t so bad,” I say when I’m nearly to Wes.
…two…one.
And that’s when my toes come down on a moss-slick bit and I slip, plunging a foot before a hand wraps vise-tight around my bad wrist. Pain rips up my arm, sudden and bright, and my vision falters, tunneling. Wesley says something, but his voice is far away and then gone altogether. I feel the darkness folding around me, trying to drag me down, but I cling to his hand and the heavy drum of his noise. I focus on that, not the strange distance or the sense of time skipping like a stone. I focus on the music until I can see the wall in front of me, until I can hear Wesley’s words, begging for my other hand.
And just like that, time snaps back into motion, and I grab hold of his arm with both hands, and he hauls me up and through the window. We both hit the floor in the empty apartment and lie there a moment, gasping with relief.
“See?” pants Wes, rolling onto his back on the hardwood floor. “That was fun.”
“We really need to discuss your idea of fun.” I drag myself into a sitting position, wincing, then get to my feet and look around at the apartment, or at least try. It’s pitch-black, the only light streaming in through the window off the street, but I can tell there’s nothing here. It has that hollow, echoing feel that comes with empty space, and the only break in the dust on the floor is clearly from Wesley earlier tonight. He brushes himself off and leads me through the bones of 4F.
“It’s been vacant for nearly a decade,” he explains. “You will appreciate, though, that according to the walls, the last person who lived here had no fewer than five cats.”
I shudder. I hate cats, and Wesley knows it. He’s the one who found me sitting on the floor outside Angelli’s place after being assaulted by her feline horde.
“So who are we looking for?” asks Wes, heading for the front door.
“Henry Mills. Age fourteen.”
“Splendid,” says Wes, opening the door and showering us in hall light. “Maybe if we’re lucky, he’ll put up a fight.”
Wesley gets his wish.
In the short time Henry’s been out, he’s slipped enough that when he looks at us he doesn’t see us, he sees something he’s afraid of—in this case, cops—and Wes and I end up chasing him through half the territory before we manage to corner him. It’s not the most delicate return—we drag him kicking and screaming through the nearest door—but it gets the job done.
It’s nearly three a.m. by the time we get back to 4F and make the terrifying descent into my room—this time without incident. I sink onto the bed, exhausted. Wesley makes his way to the nearby chair, but I catch his hand, music flaring through me as I draw him to the bed. I let go and scoot back to make room for him. He hovers there a moment, knees against the mattress.
“Beds are for boyfriends,” he says.
“And for people who don’t like sleeping in chairs,” I say. Something like sadness flashes in his eyes before he smiles, sinking onto the comforter beside me. He snaps the bedside light off, and we lie there inches apart in the dark. Wesley offers his hand, and when I take it, he presses my palm to the front of his shirt. His noise pours through me, loud and welcome.
“Good night, Wesley,” I whisper.
“Sleep well,” he whispers back.
And somehow, I do.
TWENTY-TWO
“IT’S A HEAVY burden to bear,” says Roland, handing the picture back, “but Crew is worth it.”
I look down at the picture of Da and his partner, Meg. I can’t imagine fitting with someone the way they do, so close they almost touch, even though they’re not wearing silver bands. Is that what love is for people like us? Being able to share space? Without our rings, we wear our lives on our sleeves. Our thoughts and wants and fears. Our weaknesses. I can’t bear the thought of someone seeing mine.
“How?” I ask. “How can it be worth it?” I run my thumb over Da’s face. This isn’t the Da I knew. My Da had far more wrinkles and far less ease. My Da has been in the ground six months. “Letting people in, loving them—it’s a waste. In the end it just hurts more when you lose them.”
Roland leans back against a shelf, a History’s dates printed just above his shoulder. He looks out past me, his gray eyes unfocused.
“It’s worth it,” he says, “to have someone from whom you hide nothing. The weight of secrets and lies starts heavy, and it only gets harder. You build walls to keep the world out. Crew is the small part of the world you let in.
“It’s worth it,” says Roland again. “One day, when you’re surrounded by those walls, you’ll see.”
Wesley is gone by the time I wake up.
It’s a good thing, because Mom is bustling around my room, closing the window, tidying stacks of paper, gathering up pieces of laundry from the floor. Apparently privacy went out the window with trust. She tells the desk it’s time to get up, tells the laundry in her hands that breakfast is ready. We seem to have taken a step back.
The Archive list is tucked under the phone on my bedside table, and when I go to check it, I see there’s a text from Wesley.