Page 37

“If the company set it, it’s probably wordplay,” Greer said.

Jack cocked his head at her. “How do you mean?”

“The company is literally called ‘scythe.’ ”

“Yeah, it’s an acronym,” said Jack.

“Right, and it’s also the symbol most associated with grim reapers. Clearly whoever’s in charge of naming things around here can’t resist playing with words. Even the login request is for your ‘ideathification.’ ” She rolled her eyes at this, but Jack knew Greer too well. Words had been her favorite things to play with growing up: not toys, not boys’ hearts. She’d been on the honor roll as an English lit major and likely would have gone on to be a teacher or even a writer had she not left college and started a family before the end of her junior year.

“Think you can crack it?” he asked, but it wasn’t a question, it was an offer, and as much as Greer tried to hide her pleasure at the thought of taking it, she pushed her brother aside and stepped in front of the computer with enough force to reveal her eagerness. This time Jack swallowed his smile. She didn’t want to let that part of her show, so he would act like he couldn’t see it. If that was what made her happy, he would do it without question, just like he always had. But the truth of it was that he could see, and that was enough to make him happy too.

Where Greta’s fingers had Irish-danced stiffly over the keyboard only a few days ago, Greer’s pecked like a hungry chicken at scattered corn. This was not a performance, this was a game. Her hazel eyes took on a glow, a subconscious smirk pulling one lip slightly higher on her face. Jack watched with careful appreciation as her mind worked, its thoughts reflected in her eyes as they poured through her fingers. Reluctantly, he peeled his gaze away long enough to glance at the delicate gold watch on his thin, liver-spotted wrist. They’d already taken more time than he’d realized in Section 301 D, and while he’d overheard Greta on the phone telling the actual exterminators she’d be out of the office for the morning, he wasn’t sure if that meant the entire morning or just an hour or two.

“How’s it coming?” he asked.

“Don’t rush me,” said Greer.

He’d expected that.

“Eli,” he said, “stand guard at the top of the stairwell.”

“So when the ice queen comes back, I’m the one who gets in the shit?”

Before Jack could counter this, Carter gave Eli a fraternal clap on the back. “I’ve got it,” he said, then gave Jack a look Jack couldn’t interpret for the life of him. Carter disappeared to the stairs and Jack allowed himself the luxury of moving closer to Greer if only so he could peer over her shoulder at her progress. Just now she was trying “MourningPerson123,” though even she seemed disappointed by that one.

She tilted her head at Jack. “I’m running out of ideas,” she said.

“You’ve got this.” It was as much a hope as a vote of confidence, but a few taps later and the lock screen disappeared, replaced by an immaculately organized home screen.

“You did it,” Jack practically yodeled. “How did you do it?”

Greer almost seemed to shrink at this.

“How bad was it?” Eli asked.

On a sharp inhale, Greer said, “The password was ‘Passedword.’ I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Harrowing,” said Eli. He gently shouldered his sister out of the way and took the mouse from her, scanning through documents on the computer’s desktop. Eli’s reluctance to play lookout aside, everyone in the You Agains knew their roles and slid into them without a second thought. Eli, for all his erratic moods and extreme actions, had a surprising knack for technology, both using it and stealing it.

“All right, what’ve we got,” Eli said, absently chewing his bottom lip. The screen’s reflection danced in the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses as he bounced around different folders on the home screen. “Well, well, well.” He tapped an icon and a document popped open, revealing a color-coded spreadsheet. Along the bottom columns, highlighted in yellow, was Margaret Chen’s name, along with the rest of the agents in her department. Above it was a list of Accidental Deaths agents in blue, and above that still was the Natural Causes department in green. Then came the department managers in pink, and above that, in a column marked “directors,” was a collection of names whose initials he recognized.

A thunder of footsteps on the stairs.

Carter skidded into the archives, chest heaving slightly from his speed. “She’s coming.”

Jack’s head swiveled between Carter and the computer. He needed those names. Then he needed to disappear, and quick.

• • •

The Dickens Protocol was first enacted back in freshman year, when Mrs. Holloway returned in the middle of an otherwise flawlessly executed heist of the answers to an upcoming quiz on A Tale of Two Cities. The protocol was built around three principal components:

Distract.

Confuse.

Run the fuck away before anyone’s the wiser.

As the rhythmic tap of ballet flats echoed in the stairwell leading toward the S.C.Y.T.H.E. archives, the You Agains readied the protocol.