“I didn’t do it.”
“What have you been doing in here for three hours?” she says. “Did you even write in your journal?”
I blink very slowly. My journal is sitting on the desk, still in its sleeve.
“You haven’t written anything?” she says,stunned. She swipes my journal from the desk, sees the unbroken seal on the sleeve, and appears to burst a blood vessel. I sit back inside myself as she shouts, watching as she tosses my book in front of me. Her words mute and warp, losing shape as I disconnect from time. I listen to the sounds of my own breathing, clasp my hands and trace their lines.
For hours I’ve been watching the light dance and change in this room, using my time to sort through the mental files I’ve made on every person I’ve encountered in the facility. I’ve classified all parties by perceived threat and possible utility, but so far none have stood out to me in any marked way except James. Well, him and Leon.
Someone has ransacked Leon’s room, and it wasn’t me.
Pay attention.
I’ve turned it over and over: Is it possible someone was searching his room for the vial? If so, two new possibilities arise: either Leon is the double agent I’m looking for, or he’s the unlucky caretaker of the object. The former theory falls apart when held up against logic: it seems unlikely The Reestablishment would entrust the vial to someone of unsound mind. Of course, the incident with Leon could be nothing more than an unrelated distraction. Still—
If you’re smart enough, you’ll see it coming.
Theories rise and dissolve, like air bubbles.
In my head I underline a picture of Leon’s face, adding a question mark next to his name.
Important? Or idiot?
Pinned to the imaginary corkboard next to him is an image of James, his face circled and starred, notes scribbled furiously in the margins—
Key to infiltrating Anderson family
Terrifying and dangerous
Notorious bloodline
Lulls enemies into false sense of security
Do not underestimate
—with this last note underlined several times.
The truth is, the drama with Leon is probably little more than a domestic dispute between inmates. It seems far more likely, given everything I’ve been through thus far, that James is my true mark.
I draw breath at the thought.
Heat singes my skin, an uncategorized fear forcing me violently back into my body.
“That’s right,” says Agatha, and I look at her.
She’s misunderstood my reaction.
“Youshouldbe ashamed of yourself,” she’s saying. “Honestly, it’s refreshing to see that you’re even capable of remorse. I was starting to think you didn’t feel bad about killing Leon at all.”
“I didn’t kill him,” I say, remembering. “He’s not dead.”
“You know exactly what I mean—”
My eyes unfocus.
James had been so calm. He didn’t shout or ask questions.
He didn’t even seem mad. He just looked at me, then walked around the table and reached for Leon,and when he put his bare hands on Leon’s bleeding throat, I thought maybe he’d decided to snap his neck, put him out of his misery. Instead, he spoke calmly into Leon’s ear, telling him he was going to be all right, and then held him until he stopped convulsing.
