When I ran, I lost myself.
I have been afraid of losing myself lately. Afraid of pushing too hard. Afraid of letting my guard down. Of letting go.
Now I step onto the track with a kind of abandon and start to run. At first it’s a jog, but then I go faster and faster, until I break into a full sprint, giving it everything I have. I haven’t run like this in days, weeks, years.
I run until the world blurs. Until I can’t breathe, can’t hear, can’t think. Until Owen is gone and the voids are gone and Agatha is gone and the Archive is gone and Wesley is gone and there is nothing but the sound of my shoes on the track and my pulse in my ears. I run until all my fears—the fear of losing my mind, my memories, my life—have bled away.
Time begins to slip, and for once, I don’t try to catch it.
I run until I feel like myself again.
I run until I find peace.
When my shoes finally slow and stop, I bend over my knees, breathing shallowly. Then I pace slowly in a circle, waiting for my heart to slow, my eyes closed in the middle of the empty gym. I focus on the sound of my pulse.
“Miss Bishop?” calls a gruff voice, and I drag my eyes open to find the gym teacher—the one who oversees the sparring ring, I think his name is Metz—trotting over with a clipboard.
“Sorry,” I say. “Am I not supposed to be here?”
Coach Metz waves the clipboard. “Whatever. None of the sports have started yet. Speaking of, you’re quite the runner. Have you considered track?” I shake my head. “You should,” he says. “You’re a natural.”
“Not sure I have the time, sir.”
“Gotta make time for the important things, Bishop. Tryouts are next week. Can I at least put your name down?”
I hesitate. Where will I be next week? Hunting Histories in the Narrows, or strapped to a chair having my memories carved out? What if next week this is all a bad dream and I’m alive and still me?
“We could use someone like you,” he adds.
“Okay,” I say. “Sure. Count me in.” It’s so small, but it’s something to cling to. A sliver of normal.
Coach Metz passes me the clipboard, and I write out my name and hand it back. He offers me a gruff nod of approval as he reads my name and makes a few notes in the margin.
“Good, good,” he grumbles. “Hyde honor at stake, need the speed…” And then he trots away, disappearing through a door at the other end of the gym marked OFFICES.
I sink onto the mats to stretch out. My muscles ache from the sudden burst of activity, but it’s a welcome pain. I lie down on the mat, going through my stretches; then I stare up at the ceiling and breathe, wondering: If the Archive came for me, would I run? Will it come to that?
My theory is getting thinner by the day. Everything pointed to a setup until Cash. Was the attack on him a mistake? A message? A punishment? Did they miss on purpose? Or were they trying to interrupt the pattern and weaken the theory? Questions trickle through me, and at the heart of all the hows and whys, the biggest question is who.
You’re getting tangled, Da would say. Most problems are simple at their center. You just gotta find the center.
What’s at the center of this problem?
The key.
You don’t technically have to be Crew to make a void—I wasn’t—so long as you have the right kind of key. But Crew are the only ones issued those keys, so the person making the voids is either Crew or someone who’s been given a Crew key. Roland gave me Da’s, so I know it’s possible. Would a Librarian really smuggle one out? Give it to a Keeper to bury the trail of guilt? What if Owen had other allies in the Archive besides Carmen? Could one of them be trying to get revenge? Librarians are Histories; can they be read like Histories? Is there some kind of postscript that records the time they’ve been in the service of the Archive after their lives have been compiled?
Would Agatha ever consider reading them? Or would she just pin the crimes on me instead? It wouldn’t fix the problem, wouldn’t change the fact that someone is doing this, but it would give her an out, a person to blame. And after our latest meeting, I have no doubt she plans to find me guilty of something. Why wouldn’t she sink me for this? It would be easy. All she has to do is claim I have Owen’s key.
I sit up, inhaling sharply.
Owen’s key. He had it on him when he went into the void. Agatha accused me of having it and I don’t, but he did. Maybe he still does.
It’s the one option I haven’t considered. Haven’t wanted to consider. Is it even possible? A void is a door to nowhere, but it’s still a door. And every door has two sides. What if the voids aren’t being opened from this side? What if someone isn’t throwing people in? What if they’re just trying to get out?
What if Owen’s trying to get to me?
No.
I fall back against the mat and force myself to breathe.
No. I have to stop. I have to stop seeing Owen in everything. I have to stop looking for him in every moment of my life. Owen Chris Clarke is gone. I have to stop bringing him back.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. And then I feel the scratch of letters on the list and take it out, expecting another name. Instead I find a message:
Access granted. Good luck. —R
Roland. Something untangles in my chest. A thread of hope. A fighting chance. I get to my feet, and I’m nearly to the locker rooms when I hear the crash.
TWENTY-FOUR
IT CAME FROM somewhere across the gym.
The crash was far enough away to sound low, loud enough for it to echo around me, but it started in the far corner, the same direction Coach Metz went. I sprint across the gym floor and through the door marked OFFICES, only to find myself in a small hallway full of trophy cases. None of them seem disturbed, and besides, the crash was deep, like something heavy falling—not high, like breaking glass. Doorways stud the hall, each with a glass window insert; I make my way down the corridor, glancing in each room to see if anything’s off.
Three doors in, I look through the window and slam to a stop.
Beyond the glass is a storage room. Inside, it’s too dark to make out much more than the metal shelves, half of which have toppled over. I pull my sleeve down over my hand and test the door. It’s unlocked.
I step through, flicking on one of the three wall switches, illuminating the space just enough to better see the shelves. Two of them have fallen forward and caught each other on the way down. Balls and bats and helmets are now scattered across the storage room floor.
I’m so focused on not tripping on any of the equipment that I nearly slip on the blood.
I catch myself midstep and retreat from the fresh, wet slick on the concrete. I look up at the air above the blood, and my eyes slide off of a new void. The air catches in my throat as I listen for sounds of life around me, hearing only the thudding of my pulse.
But this scene is different from the others.
There was no blood at Judge Phillip’s house. None in Bethany’s driveway.
An aluminum baseball bat rests on the ground beside my shoe; I crouch and grab it (careful to keep my sleeve between the metal and my fingers to avoid leaving prints), then stand and turn in a slow circle, scanning the darker corners of the room for movement. I’m alone. It doesn’t feel like it, but that strange sense of wrong must be coming from the void door, because there’s no one here. My eyes flick back to the blood. Not anymore, at least.