all of physics. Come up with totally different rules.”
“Except that most physicists won’t kill you over the theory of relativity. The Consort absolutely will.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course it does! But I’m not going to risk my life for some crackpot theory.”
“They’re not crackpots.”
“They’re as nuts as the people who think we faked the moon landing, only more dangerous.” I started to protest, but he held up a hand. “You want to believe them, so you don’t care about facts. But I need proof, and you don’t have any.”
“Actually,” I said, trying not to sound smug, “I do.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WHEN I’D LEFT SIMON IN Train World, I’d given him my backpack, stuffed with Walker tools. Since then I hadn’t Walked enough to build up a new bag of tricks. Monty had once told me that a good Walker did more with less, and right now my tools were definitely falling on the “less” end of the spectrum. Then again, I didn’t feel like much of a Walker.
“I haven’t replaced Monty’s picks yet,” I told Eliot as we crept toward the darkened school. We’d used Monty’s lock picks last time we broke into the school. There’d been a basketball game tonight, but no one had stuck around to celebrate a victory. The team’s record since Simon disappeared had been nightmarish.
“Better think of something,” he replied. His words were stilted and stiff.
“Here.” I gestured to a pivot hovering a few feet from the back entrance of the field house. He took my elbow, as lightly as possible, like he couldn’t stand to touch me, and I led the way through.
The truth can claim as many casualties as a lie. I’d lost Eliot’s trust, and he’d lost his hope. I didn’t know if we could recover either.
We arrived in the same Echo Ms. Powell had taken me to on our first Walk—a pitch I would never forget. I rummaged in my backpack.
“I got nothing,” I muttered. My phone, some notebooks, a couple of candy bars. Origami paper and a length of kitchen twine, because you never knew when string would come in handy. The papers we’d used to decode Rose’s journals and a half-used jar of raspberry lip balm.
He peered over my shoulder while I cursed the fact that I had twelve different hair elastics and seven pencils, but no lockpicks. Then he reached around me and plucked out the reports we’d looked at the day before.
“What—”
Without a word, he pulled off the paper clips and held them out.
“Genius,” I said. “As usual.”
He didn’t reply.
“You have to talk to me eventually.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” he said. “And especially not because you tell me to. I’m only here to keep the Consort from coming after us. We both had contact with Ms. Powell. Guilt by association.”
I worked the wire into a rough approximation of a lockpick. “I’ll take the blame,” I said. “If this doesn’t work, I’ll make sure they know it was all me.”
“You think they’ll buy it?”
“Well, one of us is a fantastic liar. Better I try to sell them a story than you.”
The makeshift picks took more time than I liked, but finally we were in. We made our way swiftly across the deserted basketball court, the air thick with pivots and memories and tension.
“What are we looking for?” he asked.
“You asked for proof,” I said, leading him through darkened hallways. “I’m giving you what you want.”
He scowled. “I gotta work on my communication skills.”
“Hush,” I said as we stopped outside the library. “I need light.”
He held up his phone, casting a faint, grainy glow. I reached into the air, relying on sense memory to guide my hands, looking for the shift in density that would reveal the cut site.
The only sounds were Eliot’s breathing and mine, and the rustle of pivots around us. My hands skimmed through empty space, until something caught on my fingertips like a snagged piece of silk. The seam in the world that would restore Eliot’s faith in me.
Gently I parted the air, holding it open. “There’s your proof,” I said with a nod. “Go ahead. Feel.”
One hand still clutching the phone, he reached into the cut site, skepticism etched across his face. His fingers splayed wide, searching through the strings.
His brow furrowed. His mouth fell open, then clamped shut. “How?”
“I don’t know. Ms. Powell didn’t get into the specifics. But there’s your proof.”
He continued to examine the cut site and the seam. I could see him sorting through theories and analyzing the data.