Page 55 of The Sixth Fraction

Her reaction is sudden: she slams the heel of her hand down on the railing and turns toward me. I’m a lot taller than her, and bigger, too, but I still back up.

“I’m going to kill him, and that’s just the start,” she says. “Is that specific enough for you?”

I don’t need her to say who “he” is. There’s only one of him. I keep my mind blank, I keep my body still. I’m going to kill him—that’s the stark truth I asked for, isn’t it? Only now that I’ve gotten it, I wish I hadn’t.

“I see,” I say, and I would be proud of how flat I sound, how calm, if I was myself. But I feel all wrong, like I’m in some other person’s body, living some other person’s life. “And you thought I’d be okay with that?”

“I thought you would accept it,” she says. “And you will, won’t you.”

It’s not a question, and I don’t answer it. There’s no train coming, probably won’t be for another hour, but I can’t stay here any longer.

“Goodbye, Evelyn,” I say.

I’m walking away when she calls after me: “I could use your help with what comes after. If you change your mind, you can always find me at the Rookery.”

The Rookery. Right. That’s her name for the decrepit building not far from Dauntless headquarters, with boarded-up windows and overgrown weeds in front of its entrance.

That’s the glamorous factionless life she wants me to embrace.

I keep walking.

I go back to Dauntless headquarters. My plan is to stop by the shops to pick up a few things and then hide out in my room for the rest of the day. On my way down, I pass the families of my initiates: a tall Candor man who I’m guessing is searching for Al, the surprisingly normal-looking people who produced Peter as their spawn, and a years-younger version of Christina who seems desperate to look over the edge of the chasm.

And then I run into Zeke and Uriah’s mother.

Hana is her name. She’s small—both short and narrow—and more demure than most of the Dauntless I see on a daily basis. She’s wearing black, of course, but her clothes are tailored, her shirt collar pressed. Her hair is cut in a perfect line across her jaw.

“Four,” she says to me. “My son told me you had to work today, and that’s why you wouldn’t be joining us for dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I almost wince at the “ma’am” that sneaks out of my mouth. Some habits are hard to break.

Hana raises an eyebrow. “I know where you work, Four.”

The initiates have Visiting Day off, which means I don’t need to teach them anything, and the simulation room isn’t exactly where anyone wants to go on a holiday. I should have told Zeke to come up with a better excuse. I’m not going to be good company.

Hana just pats my arm and says, “I’ll see you at six, then.”

Zeke has an apologetic look on his face when I show up on his mother’s doorstep six hours later, holding a loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper. He does grin at the bread, though.

“How domestic of you,” he says. “Did you bake that yourself?”

“It’s polite to bring a gift,” I reply. “And I didn’t bake it, no.”

“But you could have, couldn’t you?”

I glare at him. “I’m not answering that.”

“Stop giving him a hard time and let him through the door, Ezekiel!” Hana calls out from the kitchen.

I’ve been here before. Mostly when I’m with Zeke and he has to bring his mother something or pick up Uriah. I usually stay in the entryway, where the wall is plastered with pictures of Zeke, Uriah, Hana, and her late husband, pierced and tattooed and always smiling, just like Uriah. But sometimes Hana makes me stay for dinner. She always talks to me like she knows me, even though I do my best not to know anyone.

This morning seems like a nightmare, the feeling of it lingering even though the memory of it has gone hazy. I’ve put it out of my mind. Just because Evelyn wants to do something doesn’t mean she will. Doesn’t mean she’ll be able to.

Beyond the entryway is a bright, comfortable apartment. The walls are all red brick, the sofa in the living room sagging in the middle next to a bookshelf stuffed to the brim with worn volumes. There are plants on every available surface, and picking a careful path across the coffee table is a gray cat. That’s new.

“Trouble, get off!” Zeke says, making a shooing motion with both hands. The cat looks up at him and meows.

“You named a cat ‘Trouble’?”