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Failure.
For giving them back their lives and not being able to save them from themselves.
When I step back outside, I have to blink to adjust to the brightness. Everything seems calmer here, more still, almost reverent. The Recorder Hall wasn’t loud, exactly, but it wasn’t quiet, either.
Something catches my gaze. I turn slowly.
Beside the door to the Recorder Hall is a painting, a portrait of me, held in a place of honor. It was one of the last paintings Harley ever made.
And someone’s shredded it.
It looks as if a giant claw of knives ripped through the canvas—five long gashes slice through my face and chest, spilling out strings and dried paint like bleeding wounds. The background behind me in the painting—a mirror of Godspeed’s fields and farms—is mostly untouched. Whoever did this took care to dismantle my face and leave the rest of the painting unharmed.
And it wasn’t like this when I entered the Recorder Hall. Whoever did this waited for the perfect opportunity—to make sure I saw, and to make sure I knew it was done when I was nearby.
I force myself to turn. My eyes dart around the fields and down the path. There’s no one here. The vandal fled already . . . or simply strolled into the Recorder Hall to fade among the crowd, watching me as I walked past.
14
AMY
BACK IN MY ROOM, I CAN’T QUIT PACING. ORION LEFT CLUES—for me? About something important, something life or death, apparently. Could it be about the death of the ship? The stopped engines?
And—how has he already given me the first clue?
I stop pacing and stare at my bedroom wall, catching sight of the chart I’d painted there. It’s been three months since Elder stopped Orion from murdering the frozens in the military. Before that I’d tried to identify the murderer by painting the list of victims on my wall. I trace the sloppy letters, the paint so thick that the edges leave tiny shadows on the white wall. Thin lines of black drips have dried like witches’ fingers reaching for the floor. One line is longer and thicker than the others. It cuts through the dusty ivy Harley had once, long ago, painted for his girlfriend, whose room this once was.
Blac
k scrawls on a dirty wall. That is all Orion ever gave me, other than the bodies of victims.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply, remembering the way the paint smelled as I dipped Harley’s paintbrush into it.
Paint.
Harley.
That’s what Orion gave me. The only thing he ever really gave me. Harley’s last painting. When Harley was in the cryo level, piecing together bits of wire so he could open the hatch and slaughter himself in the vacuum of space, he gave his last finished painting to Orion—who gave it to me. After Harley’s death, I was too sad to look at it and asked that Elder take it to Harley’s room for me.
Which is where it must still be. . . . I race out of my room and down the hall. Harley’s room is easy to find—smudges of color create a rainbow path straight to his door.
His room smells of dust and turpentine, like old mistakes. The slats over his window stream artificial light over a small plant in a homemade pot that has long since died. Speckles of dust glitter in the bars of light.
It feels like a violation, stepping into this room. My hand lingers by the door frame, my thumb still resting on the biometric scanner.
I step inside slowly, still holding onto the door frame with one hand, reluctant to dive fully into this den of Harley’s past. My fingers slide from the wall to the dresser pressed against it, leaving four shiny paths in the dust on top. Is this three months worth of dust, or more? I never saw Harley in his room, only saw him leaving it once as we passed in the hall. I cannot picture him in it now. It is too small, too cramped. This is more like storage than a home.
But Harley was an artist, a true artist, and his storage is more precious than anything I’ve seen in a museum. Canvases are stacked against the wall. I flip through a row of them, all facing the room. One is nothing but splatters of paint and black ink, an experiment failed, I think. There’s another koi fish, the same kind of painting Harley did for me, but this one is more cartoonish and less realistic, with lighter colors that would be pastel if they weren’t so brightly clashing.
The last painting faces the wall, but even before I turn it around, I see the rips in the canvas, ragged edges leaking threads.
It’s a painting of a girl. There’s a smile on her lips, but none in her deep and watery eyes. She looks like she’s just emerged from a bath or a swimming pool; her hair is dripping wet, and droplets leave dark stains trailing down her face.
The cuts on the canvas were made in anger—they’re jagged and rough. Someone—Harley?—has gone back and tried to repair the canvas, but no one could put her face back together again.
Kayleigh. It has to be. My fingers run down the thick paint of her hair. This is the girl Harley lost, the one that made him lose himself.
Suddenly, I feel like a trespasser, violating Harley’s sanctuary. It doesn’t matter that he’s gone: this room is still his, and I do not belong.
