“And if I didn’t?” I ask, knowing the answer before it leaves his mouth.
“Too late, as of... ten seconds ago.” He sighs on the other end. “Sorry, Linds. I totally screwed up, thought I was being helpful by just taking initiative.”
I close my eyes, count to five. Try to keep the full weight of my ever-increasing suspicion from exploding. “It’s okay,” I say, more to myself than to Leo. “It isn’t like I have extra time for an autopsy right now anyway.”
He’s dead silent on the other end of the call. I wait, knowing him well enough to be sure it isn’t for lack of things he’dliketo say—sometimes it simply takes him a minute to put his thoughts into words.
“I’m sorry, Linds,” he says finally. “I don’t know what to tell you. I wish I could fix it, but—”
“I get it,” I say. Because what elseisthere to say? Another long silence stretches between us. Unlike before, though—unlikeeverbefore—it just feels like empty space.
“Do... you want me up there with you?” he asks, and, oh—
Suddenly it feels like we’re talking about something else entirely.
I pause for a split second too long, processing it all, but just as I’m about to answer, he says, “You know, never mind—Iactually need to take care of a few things for River back at our cabin.”
“Okay,” I say automatically. “Good luck with that.”
I had just been about to tell him not to come, anyway. So why are these tears springing up in my eyes?
Nothing is predictable these days, not even me.
“Leo... we’ll talk again in a bit, okay?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”
I close my eyes, not entirely certain how to gracefully end the call. Soon, though, his silence turns flat, and I know: he’s cut it off first.
53
WHITE-HOT BLACK HOLE
AIMLESSLY, I SWIPE my finger across the panel deck’s message screen several times in a row, a repetitive motion that’s calming for my nerves. I’m not looking for anything in particular—yet to my surprise, the image on-screen shifts to another inbox, one I’ve never seen before. What is this?
I take a deep breath, shake things off. Focus on the screen, not on how I left things with Leo.
An indicator proclaimsNew Messages: 2—but there’s a closed padlock icon beside it. I tap the padlock and six empty rectangles appear on the screen, along with a keypad. It looks just like every entry panel where we have to input our codes for access.
I try the universal code I already know, but it’s rejected immediately. Whose inbox is this? All other communication has come through the main channel, so it’s logical that Lieutenants Brady and Black used that one on a regular basis. Shapiro even called for my mother on that line—so what is this one?
Padlock icon, hidden behind the main screen, no flashing indicator light to call attention to it: the only thing I can comeup with is that it is for top-secret private messages, an inbox meant for a very select set of eyes and ears.
The person of highest rank was my mother.
What if Shapiro didn’t leave a message with Leo because it was so sensitive he had to do it in private? What if these two new messages are from him—what if they changeeverything? That would add up to five urgent calls in a row this morning. It would probably be smart to be informed before reaching out for help.
If this inbox was my mother’s, surely I can crack the code... eventually. I don’t have eventually, though. All I have is this moment.
Six boxes. Her first name—Linsey—is six letters long, but that would be so easy to crack it is not even worth considering. Still, I try it, because watch it be so simple it’s impossible.
Rejected.
Okay, then. I run through as many iterations of birthdays and initials as I can think of—hers, mine. I don’t know very much about my father, except that my mother would never talk about him and that it had something to do with flight school.
But, ahhh—what if—
My mother took the same day off, every single year, and devoted it entirely toustime. We’d play cards by the fire, drink hot cocoa with huge marshmallows Shapiro sent up for us—at her insistence, I’m sure—and connect the stars for each other, each trying to come up with the most creative constellation for every letter of the alphabet.A for Armchair,B for Bicycle, C forCrown, D for Dragonfly,and on and on. We took turns, but she always won—my scope of knowledge was rather limited, especially when I was younger, to what I’d grown up with on the station. She taught me about so many Earth things, though. With my head in her lap, her gentle hand smoothing my hair until it was soft as silk, I’d search the stars and try to imagine how arealdragonfly might move. We’d often end up forgetting the game altogether as she told me story after story, until I fell asleep.
