“Hey!” I say, trying to sound breathless. “Sorry! I just walked in.”

“Have you been out finding me some ghosts or exploring forbidden corners and walled-up rooms?”

“The search continues.”

“I bet you’re too busy getting close to Guyliner.”

“Oh, yeah. If I could just keep my hands off him long enough to look around…” But despite the joke, I smile—a small genuine thing that she obviously can’t see.

“Well, don’t get too close until I can inspect him. So, how goes it in the haunted mansion?”

I laugh, even as a third name scratches itself into the list in my pocket. “Same old, same old.” I dig the list out, unfold it on the counter. My stomach sinks.

Angela Price. 13.

Eric Hall. 15.

Penny Walker. 14.

“Pretty boring, actually,” I add, running my fingers over the names. “How about you, Lynds? I want stories.” I crumple the list, shove it back in my jeans, and head into my room.

“Bad day?” she asks.

“Nonsense,” I say, sagging onto my bed. “I live for your tales of adventure. Regale me.”

And she does. She rambles, and I let myself pretend we’re sitting on the roof of her house, or crashed on my couch. Because as long as she talks, I don’t have to think about Ben, or the dead girl in my room, or the missing pages in the study, or the Librarian erasing Histories. I don’t have to wonder if I’m losing my mind, dreaming up Keepers, or acting paranoid, twisting glitches and bad luck into dangerous schemes. Because as long as she talks, I can be somewhere else, someone else.

But soon she has to leave, and hanging up feels like letting go. The world sharpens the way it does when I pull out of a memory and back into the present, and I examine the list again.

The Histories’ ages have been going up.

I noticed it before and thought it was a blip, a rash of double digits, but now everyone on my list is in their teens. I can’t afford to wait. I pull on some workout pants and a fresh black shirt, the knife still strapped carefully to my calf. I won’t use it, but I can’t bring myself to leave it behind. The metal feels good against my skin. Like armor.

I head into the living room right as Mom comes through the front door with her arms full of bags.

“Where are you off to?” she asks, dropping everything on the table as I continue toward the door.

“Going for a run,” I say, adding, “Might go out for track this year.” If my list doesn’t settle down, I’ll need a solid excuse for being gone so often anyway, and I used to run, back in middle school when I had spare time. I like running. Not that I actually plan to go running tonight, but still.

“It’s getting dark,” says Mom. I can see her working through the pros and cons. I head her off.

“There’s still a little light left, and I’m pretty out of shape. Won’t go far.” I pull my knee to my chest in a stretch.

“What about dinner?”

“I’ll eat when I get back.”

Mom squints at me, and for a moment, part of me begs for her to see through this, a flimsy, half-concocted lie. But then she turns her attention to her bags. “I think it’s a good idea, you joining track.”

She always tells me she wishes I’d join a club, a sport, be a part of something. But I am a part of something.

“Maybe you could use some structure,” she adds. “Something to keep you busy.”

I almost laugh.

The sound crawls up my throat, a near hysterical thing, and I end up coughing to hold it back. Mom tuts and gets me a glass of water. Staying busy isn’t exactly a problem right now. But last time I checked, the Archive didn’t offer PE credits for catching escaped Histories.

“Yeah,” I say, a little too sharply. “I think you’re right.”

In that moment, I want to shout.

I want to show her what I go through.

I want to throw it in her face.

I want to tell her the truth.

But I can’t.

I would never.

I know better.

And so I do the only thing I can.

I walk out.

FIFTEEN

ANGELA PRICE is easy enough to find, and despite her being very upset, and mistaking me for her dead best friend, which of course only adds to her distress, I usher her back to Returns with little more than cunning lies and a few hugs.

Eric Hall is scrawny, albeit a little…hormonal, and I get him to the nearest Returns door with a giggle, a girlish look, and promises I’ll never have to keep.

By the time I finish hunting down and delivering Penny Walker, I feel like I really have gone for a run. I have a headache from reading walls, my muscles burn from being constantly on guard, and I think I might actually be able to sleep tonight. I’m making my way back toward the cluster of numbered doors when something catches my eye.

The white chalk circle on the front of one of the Returns doors has been disturbed, altered. Two vertical lines and one horizontal curve have been drawn into the chalk, turning my marker into a kind of…smiley face? I bring my hand to the door and close my eyes, and I’ve barely skimmed the surface of the memories when a form appears right in front of me, lean and dressed in black, his silvery-blond hair standing out against the dark.

Owen.

I let the memory roll forward, and his hand dances languidly across the chalk, drawing the face. And then he dusts the white from his fingers, puts his hands back in his pockets, and ambles down the hall. But when he reaches the end, he doesn’t continue around the corner. He turns on his heel and doubles back.

What is he doing here? He’s not tracking, not hunting. He’s…pacing.

I watch him come all the way down the hall, toward me, eyes on the floor. He walks until he’s inches from my face. And then he stops and looks up, his eyes finding mine, and I can’t shake the feeling that he sees me even though he’s alone in the past and I’m alone in the now.

Who are you? I ask his wavering form.

It doesn’t answer, only stares unblinking off into the dark beyond me.

And then I hear it.

Humming. Not the humming of the walls beneath my hands, not the sound of memories, but an actual human voice, somewhere nearby.

I pull away from the door and blink, the Narrows refocusing around me. The melody weaves through the halls, close. It’s coming from the same direction as my numbered doors, and I round the corner to find Owen leaning against the door with the I above its handle.

His eyes are closed. But when I step closer, they drift open and turn to consider me. Crisp and blue.

“Mackenzie.”

I cross my arms. “I was beginning to wonder if you were real.”

An eyebrow arches. “What else would I be?”

“A phantom?” I say. “An imaginary friend?”

“Well then, am I all that you imagined?” The very corner of his mouth curls up as he pushes off the door. “You really doubt my existence?”

I don’t take my eyes off him, don’t even blink. “You have a way of disappearing.”

He spreads his arms. “Well, here I am. Still not convinced?”

My eyes trail from the top of his white-blond hair over his sharp jaw, down his black clothes. Something’s off.

“Where’s your key?” I ask.

Owen pats his pockets. “I don’t have one.”

That’s not possible.

I must have said it aloud, because his eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“A Keeper can’t get into the Narrows without a key.…”

Unless he’s not a Keeper. I close the gap between us. He doesn’t retreat, not as I come toward him, and not as I press my hand flush against his chest and see…

Nothing. Feel nothing. Hear nothing.

Only quiet. Dead quiet. My hands fall away, and the quiet vanishes, replaced by the low hum of the hall.

Owen Chris Clarke isn’t a Keeper. He’s not even alive.

He’s a History.

But that can’t be. He’s been here for days, and he hasn’t started slipping. The blue of his eyes is so pale that I’d notice even the slightest change, and his pupils are crisp and black. And everything about him is level, normal, human. But he’s not.