“A digital file,” Knox says, voice low. “It’s locked. You need to log in.”
I follow him back to the second floor. Knox steps up to his terminal and swipes his ID card. He unfolds his reading glasses.
“Don’t make fun of me,” Knox mutters as he fumbles with the frame.
“Spider insults you enough,” I say. “Last time, he said you looked like a timid librarian who wouldn’t know his way around a woman’s body?”
“Not funny.”
I type in my access code. It processes for a second before the screen flashes: DENIED.
“That is impossible,” I murmur. “I am the Commandant. I have access to every criminal file.”
“Try again,” Knox says.
DENIED. Again.
“Do you think Warrick locked it?” Knox asks, frowning.
I tap the desk while I think.
“I outrank him. He couldn’t keep me out. This has to be my father.”
“The Supreme Director?” Knox asks. “Why hide it? Her execution was public.”
“I don’t know,” I mutter.
Unease coils in my stomach. This is all wrong.
“I’m going to call Warrick,” I say. “He must have read it or written the report himself. I’ll ask if he has a paper copy, since the digital file can’t be accessed.”
“This is weird,” Knox mutters. “Do you think the girls know why the case is hidden?”
“They know something,” I say. “I just don’t know what.”
“Why not ask her?” Knox suggests.
I scoff. “Haven wouldn’t tell me the truth if I put a gun to her head.”
“Not Haven,” Knox says. “Mercy.”
I turn to him. That’s a good idea. Haven is sealed tighter than a vault, but Mercy… Mercy is shy and afraid. She’d be far easier to crack than her sister.
“Good thinking,” I say. “We’ll have dinner together tonight. She may find it easier to confide in you than me.”
Knox smiles faintly. He is easy-going and charming. People tend to open up to him. He’ll have much better luck drawing out her secrets than I ever could.
I’m sitting at the head of the table when the housekeeper escorts Mercy into the dining room. Dark wood paneling stretchesalong the walls, interrupted by tall, arched windows draped in heavy royal blue curtains. Outside, the late afternoon sun filters through, painting streaks of amber across the floor.
Mercy slips into the room wearing a lavender dress. A matching ribbon floats around her ponytail. Her fingers clutch the fabric like a lifeline.
We’ve both done an excellent job of keeping out of each other’s way. I spend my nights sleeping in Block A, and when I do come to work in my study, she makes herself scarce. The arrangement works well for us both.
Mercy’s green eyes are narrowed in suspicion as she sits on the opposite end of the table.
“Is my sister well?” she asks immediately. “She wasn’t kidnapped again, was she?”
“No, I reckon the rebels needed to be stuck with your sister for a few hours before they decided she is unbearable,” I say. “Personally, I wouldn’t kidnap her once, let alone twice.”
