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I jump, a startled squawk escaping. “Oh, hi, David,” I say, one hand on my chest where my heart is slamming against my ribs. “This case is closed, so I was just bringing the file down for storage, but I couldn’t find the right room. It’s so confusing. ” I give him a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Everything’s so white. ”
He cocks his head at me, points at the file. “What’s the case number?”
I hold it up for him to see. “That goes in Records Room B,” he says. “I don’t mind taking it for you. Technically only the guards are allowed down here unaccompanied. Next time just let us know and we’ll be happy to take any closed case files off your hands. ”
“Thank you,” I say, give a breathless little laugh as I hand over the file. “Sorry I didn’t follow protocol. Still learning. ”
“No problem,” David says.
“Now can you point me in the right direction for the stairwell? Otherwise I’ll be wandering around here for days. ”
David smiles, points down the hall. “Stairwell is right there. ”
“Thanks. Have a nice weekend. ” I practically run to the stairs and push through the door, resting my head against it once it’s closed behind me. There is one benefit of being a Lattimer—most people are easily fooled. They think because I’ve changed my name, they know where my allegiance lies. As if a few weeks can overcome a lifetime.
I hurry through the streets, anxious to reach the market before all the stalls shut down for the evening. It’s less crowded than the last time I was here, so even though there are fewer people, more of them notice my presence. Murmurs follow in the wake of my passing, like that childhood game where the whisper starts at the beginning of the line and by the time it reaches the end it’s transformed into something new and undecipherable. I was well-known on my side of town but not talked about. I was part of the fabric of people’s lives, the founder’s daughter. Here I am only a curiosity, and I hate it.
The man at the jam stall is beginning to pack up as I reach his table. I grab a jar of jam, not even looking at what type, and thrust it toward him. “I’d like to get this. ”
He glances up at me. “It’s three vouchers. ”
We don’t have cash anymore, after the war. People are paid for their employment with vouchers. Women who don’t work—the vast majority of females in Westfall—and children are given a certain number of vouchers per month as well.
“Okay. ” I dig into the messenger bag slung across my chest for some vouchers.
“Do you need a sack?”
“No. I can put it in here. ” I nestle the jar into the bottom of my bag.
“Anything else?” the man asks.
I glance around. There’s no one nearby. “Tell her I found where they’re kept,” I say, voice low. I walk away without looking back.
Euphoria sings through my blood as I walk home, my steps bouncing against the pavement. I imagine Callie’s face when my message is delivered. It means next to nothing to the jam man, but to Callie it will mean everything. She will tell my father and they’ll both be pleased with what I’ve accomplished so far. They’ll stop worrying that they’ve given me an assignment I’m not capable of completing.
But the closer I get to home, the faster the euphoria fades. Because in my haste to prove myself to my father, to prove something to Bishop, I forgot what finding the guns means. It means my father is one step closer to the final step of the plan, to killing Bishop and President Lattimer. I believe in my father’s cause, I do. But I’m beginning to realize there is a difference between letting someone die and being the one who pulls the trigger.
The living room and kitchen are empty when I get home, a pan of chicken resting on top of the stove. The door to the screened porch is open and Bishop is stretched out on one of the wicker sofas, his long legs taking up the entire cushion.
“Hi,” I say. I put my bag on the floor and sit cross-legged on the sofa across from him. My fingers tie nervous knots in my lap.
Bishop’s gaze takes me in. “Hard day?” he asks.
“Yeah. ”
“That’s two in a row. ”
I nod. I’m poised right on the edge of tears, for no reason I can name. I have a sudden fierce wish that the man at the jam stall had been gone for the day, that my message was not already on its way to Callie.
“I wish we hadn’t had a fight,” I find myself saying. “Last night. ” I didn’t know it was true until the words left my mouth.
Bishop raises his eyebrows, gives me an easy grin. It’s the opposite of the presidential smile he gave Callie on our wedding day. This one is the real Bishop, less perfection, more warmth. “That wasn’t a fight. It’s not a fight unless we give each other the silent treatment for at least a week. ” His mouth is still smiling, but his eyes are sad. I think of his mother’s impersonal gaze, her stiff embrace. I’m guessing Bishop knows firsthand the pain of growing up in a house where an icy wind is blowing. “But I am sorry for what I said about listening to your father,” he continues.
“I’m not a complete idiot, you know,” I tell him. “I do think about alternatives if things were to change in Westfall. ”
Bishop swings his legs off the sofa and sits forward, facing me. “I have never, not for a single second, thought you were an idiot, Ivy. ”
“You listen to your father, too, don’t you?” I ask him.
