The Society cannot have that kind of power.
I put the dish down and wipe my hands on a napkin I find on the coffee table. It’s clean. There’s a stack of them and beside them packets of ketchup from a fast-food place. I pick up my mug of now warm water and finish it, then look at the newspapers around me. I read the date on the first one, and it surprises me, so I look at another. It’s a different paper but the same date. The day after the gala. There are several gossip magazines underneath the pile of papers, about a week’s worth. Again, the week following the gala.
It’s nothing, I tell myself as I stand to carry my dish and mug back to the kitchen. Just a coincidence. In the kitchen, I wash my things and set them on the drying rack before returning to the living room.
Was Abel here that week? Why? He called this a safe house. What would he have needed to be safe from?
But no, Abel doesn’t read gossip magazines. He does devour the papers, though. I check my phone to make sure I haven’t missed his call. I haven’t, but he’d better call me soon. The battery is running low, and I don’t have a charger. Although I could charge it in the car if I need to. The one I keep plugged into the power outlet would fit.
I make my way into the study. It’s still not as bright as the rest of the house, but with the light coming in from the open door and my flashlight, it’ll do. I sit back down in the big chair, switch on the flashlight and start to go through the folders one by one, seeing if I recognize any names. Abel’s voice telling me not to touch anything echoes in my mind, but I ignore it.
When I’m about halfway through the files, I finally come across one I recognize. One that makes me shudder.
Judge.
It’s in italics beside what I guess to be his real name. Lawson Montgomery. I flip through the pages of the file and, like the others, see a date of birth, parents’ names—some seem to have a whole family tree, but this one doesn’t. He does have a brother, but according to this, they’re estranged. I see his address and wonder if that’s where the cellar is. It would match up to the length of time it took us to drive to IVI.
I close the file and set it aside. I don’t want to read about him. I don’t want to think about that time.
I don't recognize the next set of names, but then I come to another one I do. Van Der Smit. Jackson’s last name. The file is about another man, though. Marcus Van Der Smit. From the date of Marcus’s birth, I’d say he’s maybe an uncle? Are these all members of IVI? And why does my brother have detailed files on all of them? Is it my brother or my father, though, who’s kept these?
Opening another one of the drawers, I find more of the same stacks. I don’t have the energy to go through them, though, and there’s nothing about my father or Hazel in here, so I get up and go back to the kitchen to try the back door. I can at least walk around in the backyard to get some exercise and fresh air.
The door has the same keypad on it as at the front, and I dig out the sheet of paper from my pocket to unlock it, not sure how it works to get out once I’m in, but when I punch in the code, I hear the same sounds and see the green light. Just in case, though, I drag a chair over to keep the door open. The day is cool, and I don’t have a jacket, but it’s nice to be outside, so I hug my arms around myself and walk around the yard. I can hear cars drive by. A baby cries somewhere not too far away. And I think about my own baby and then about Santiago. How it could have been different for us. How I’d felt like it was getting there, at least a little.
I still remember his face the night I burned the bloody sheet. I’d never seen him look like that before, and I’d thought I’d seen Santiago at his worst. But I understand, too. The fire must have triggered an