Resonance - Erica O'Rourke Page 0,48
in the last month. You have connections to both of them. People are going to ask questions.”
“Amelia has answered the questions about Simon. And Ms. Powell wrote that letter. No matter how they analyze it, it won’t come back to me. The Consort’s the problem, not some drama queen with an unrequited crush and an ax to grind.”
“Strangely, I do not find that reassuring,” he said.
I pulled on my coat, wound my scarf around my neck, and set off, Eliot easily matching my pace. “If we want to avoid the Consort, we need to figure out where that map leads. The Free Walkers are the only way out.”
“For you, maybe.”
Not for Eliot. Even knowing the truth, he was still unwilling to cast his lot with the Free Walkers. And if Eliot couldn’t be convinced, what chance would the Free Walkers have with the rest of our people?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Days until Tacet: 18
THE FUNNY THING ABOUT TROUBLE is how quickly it grows, like a snowball rolling downhill, swelling and silently picking up speed, and you only notice a split second before you’re flattened.
Trouble likes you to know it’s coming, but only if you can’t run.
I should have known something was off when I saw how cheerful Bree looked, two days later, standing outside math class with her friends, marking my progress. It’s never a good sign when someone who loathes you looks happy to see you, but my mind was too full of maps and secrets to pay attention.
Trouble likes it when you don’t pay attention.
I slid into my seat, pulled out my notebook, and started doodling Rose’s song. Late in the period, a squawk and crackle rent the air. I jolted in my seat, my heart kicking like a jackrabbit, looking for the pivot.
“Yes?” called Mrs. Gregory. I slumped. The intercom.
“Delancey Sullivan to the office, please,” came a nasal, disembodied voice.
Bree sat a little straighter, tossing her hair over her shoulders.
“Naturally,” sighed Mrs. Gregory, and waved me toward the door.
One of Bree’s friends leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She nodded in reply, but didn’t giggle. Whatever triumph she was feeling—and it was triumph, I could see it in the lift of her chin and tilt of her shoulders—it was strained.
I grabbed my bag as I left, texting Eliot as I went.
Trouble. Office.
“Go ahead,” the secretary told me when I arrived. “You know the way.”
Even if I hadn’t—which I did—Principal Sayers was waiting outside his office.
“Thanks for coming in, Del.” He followed me inside and shut the door behind us. I dropped into my usual seat. A quick glance at the two plate-glass windows, blinds open, showed that the office staff was planning to watch our conversation, even if they couldn’t listen. Instead of sitting behind the desk, the principal lounged against the corner, trying to look casual.
Walkers know that keeping your options open is a literal thing: Indecision manifests as eddies of air, pivots caught in a formative state. The air around Principal Sayers was thick with uncertainty.
“Did I do something wrong?” This was a different kind of trouble than the Consort. A wrong answer here wasn’t going to get me killed. But I remembered the satisfied look on Bree’s face, and stripped the sulkiness from my voice.
Trouble loves when you’re overconfident.
“We’re hoping you could help us answer some questions. About Simon Lane.”
I said nothing.
“We understand that you two were seeing each other?”
“Yes.”
“Have you heard from him since he left?”
I ducked my head, trying to look embarrassed. “No.”
“Did you know he was going to transfer?”
“We weren’t big on talking about the future.”
His face turned a red so dark he nearly matched his tie, and he cleared his throat. “I see.”
“Simon left more than two weeks ago. Why are you asking me about him now? Is it because of Ms. Powell?” I scoffed. “The stoner kid’s not exactly reliable, you know. That much pot would make anyone paranoid.”
He sniffed. “Ms. Powell’s departure is inconvenient, not sinister. We’re concerned because Simon hasn’t checked in with anyone since he left.”
“Does he need to?” I asked pointedly. “His mom signed off on the transfer, right?”
“She did. But considering her situation . . .”
“Amelia’s cancer,” I said, and he shifted, as if saying the word out loud might make it contagious.
“It’s important Simon is adequately supported during this difficult time. We’d like to help.”
I scoffed. “Bull. You’re not worried about his support network. You want Simon to come home because the basketball team has lost their last five games.”
“I like to think of