Page 21 of The Sixth Fraction

And who else knows they weren’t Evelyn’s?

The following morning, my father appears at breakfast.

“Beatrice,” he says. “Finish up and come with me, please.”

I’m just carrying my bowl to the sink to wash it, but Susan takes it from me and waves me along. She looks tired—she always looks tired now. But initiation is keeping her busy, at least.

I give her whatever smile I can muster, but I’ve been on edge since last night, and this summons isn’t helping. Someone might have found out I’ve been wandering around and reported it. I might get into trouble. I don’t know why I can’t just go through this month of initiation without messing it up.

My unease must be easy to read, because my father’s eyes soften when I draw close.

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble,” he says.

For some reason, I don’t find that reassuring. We walk down the gray hallway, through the lobby, and down another hallway toward the Memory Vault. My father stops at the door to the vault and knocks.

“Come in,” Marcus says from inside.

The vault looks just as it did on Choosing Day, dim and warm. Sitting around the stone table in the center of the room are Marcus Eaton, Councilor Abigail Baker, and now my father, settling in beside them. They leave an empty space for me, and I sit.

Cold seeps into my legs from the stone floor beneath me. Abigail Baker smiles.

“Beatrice, we know you’re sworn to silence this month as part of your initiation, but this meeting will be an exception. The needs of the city supersede tradition. Understand?”

I nod and then croak, “Yes.” I haven’t spoken in days. I clear my throat. “Sorry. Yes, Councilor.”

“We have been tasked with collecting information about what happened last week at the first Choosing Ceremony,” Abigail says. “All the factions are sending witnesses to offer their memories of the event to the vault, for the city’s records as well as the perusal of our Candor investigators, and your father told us you may have a unique perspective to offer.”

I glance at my father. If I saw something strange, who would I tell? I asked him. I thought he’d forgotten about that; I guess I was wrong. It stings a little to know that he didn’t keep even that question private.

“I don’t know that I do,” I say.

“Well, I hope you’ll indulge us anyway,” Abigail says. “We’re going to ask you to give your memory to the vault in a moment, but first we’d like to hear what happened to you the day of the Choosing Ceremony.”

“The same thing that happened to everyone else,” I say. “I heard the glass break, and I ducked. The people in the rafters started shouting. They cut down the banners; they hung their own; they . . .” My mouth is dry. I don’t want to talk about this, but I force myself to. “Dauntless sentries rushed in and shot someone above us. She fell. She was right next to me.”

My father draws a sharp breath.

“She’s dead, right?” I ask him. “That factionless woman. The fall from the rafters killed her?”

“Yes,” he says, looking grave. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Beatrice.”

I haven’t thought about her much, that factionless woman. I’ve only been thinking about Robert. About whether I made the wrong choice. About whether I saw a woman come back from the dead. I forgot to wonder who that factionless woman was, forgot to be bothered by looking at a dead body.

But my chest feels tight, thinking of it. I rub at my sternum with one hand as I continue.

“Everyone started running, and I fell. One of the Dauntless helped me up and pointed me toward the exit on the side of the room. I think most people forgot it was there.” I remember shoving my shoulder against the door. “And then in the courtyard . . . I saw someone.”

“Someone strange, you mean?” Abigail asks me.

I nod. “An Amity woman. Or at least—that’s what I thought. But her hair was wrong. Too tight. Like—like the way we wear it. And she was holding a gun. I thought the Amity didn’t believe in weapons, even the nonlethal kind.” My breath catches. I stop myself from going on.

“What else, Beatrice?” My father’s voice is gentle. He knows there’s something I’m holding back; of course he does. He always knows when I’m not being fully honest.

“It was dark,” I say. “I was probably just imagining it.”

“Then tell us what you imagined,” Marcus says.

“Okay.” I dig my thumb into my palm. “The woman I saw looked at me, and I . . . recognized her.”