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“Fair. This is it,” Liam added, pointing at the door to the records room.
I knew the LARC kept paper records because I’d filled out a bunch on the first day. The internship was unpaid, which meant I didn’t have to add social security fraud to my résumé, but I’d had to supply a fair bit of personal info, most of which I’d made up on the spot.
The door was locked—with a standard lock rather than a keypad this time—and Liam spent several minutes trying various keys from the big ring before Abby jimmied it with a department store gift card (“More flex than a credit card, so it works better,” she explained). When she flicked on the light inside, I let out a breath. I don’t know what I had expected. Shadows and cobwebs, padlocks,something. Instead there was an orderly bank of filing cabinets against one wall. Metal shelving on the opposite side held boxes labeled in neat handwriting.
“Here we go: ‘Employment Records, Archived,’” Abby said, indicating the farthest file cabinet. “You want these, or the boxes?”
“Those’re all just old office supplies and that sort of thing,” Liam said. “No one stores anything important in here.”
“It’s not like they’re going to write ‘Damning Evidence’ on the side,” Abby pointed out.
“I’ll take the files,” I said. I wanted to be the one to find my mother’s file. To see her name. That belonged to me.
I opened the first cabinet, and Liam went to the opposite end of the row. I trailed my fingers over the tabs of the files, my eyes skipping over strangers’ names. I opened the next drawer and the next. Nothing. NoNovak, Joywaiting for me to find. As if she hadbeen snipped out of the history of the LARC entirely.
“She’s not here,” I said. I hadn’t meant to whisper, but it was as if there was a weight bearing down on me, diminishing even my voice. “Maybe—” Maybe I’d been wrong. But I knew she’d been here. There was the photo. There was the bird. There was the damn story—The Girl in the Boat, my existence reduced to a catchy title.
“Look at this.” I wasn’t sure if Abby hadn’t heard, or if she just didn’t know how to respond. Her voice was as blunt and forceful as always, not a hint of softness or consideration in it, but I was glad; the first time I caught a whiff of pity off her, I knew I’d stop trusting her.
She held out a large glossy photo print for Liam and me to inspect. I recognized the format immediately: a group photo in front of the LARC building, just like the ones in the foyer out front. This one was marked 2003. There were seven people, and I read their names one by one.Dr. Damien Breckenridge. Dr. Helen Whitcomb. Dr. William Hardcastle. Dr. Vanya Kapoor. Carolyn Baker. Martin Carreau. Joy Novak.
She was here. “Where was it?” I asked, failing to disguise the shaking in my voice.
“In a box labeled ‘Reimbursement Receipts 2005–2007,’” she said.
“Misfiled?” I asked.
“Not a chance,” Liam replied. “That’s my mother’s handwriting. And she does not misfile things.”
Abby grunted. “I’ll take your word for it. There’s some other stuff in there, but I think we should take it with us. We’ve beenhere long enough.” She took off the empty backpack she’d been carrying for this purpose. Just as she unzipped it, something clattered down the hall. We froze.
“Goddammit!” croaked a familiar voice. “Hello, hello, hello.”
I relaxed. “Moriarty,” I said.
Liam shook his head ruefully. “He’s likely picked the lock on his cage again, the little bastard. We can’t just leave him wandering the halls—last time he managed to injure himself.”
“I’ll pack up here; you two corral the bird,” Abby suggested. “We can meet up outside.”
“Don’t forget to lock the door behind you,” Liam said, and she waved a dismissive hand at him, turning back to the mislabeled box.
We exited the file room and looked in the direction I thought the sound had come from. With all the echoing it was hard to be sure—but then Moriarty gave a gurgling chuckle, settling any confusion. “Silly bird,” I murmured, and we headed down the hall.
“What do you think of her?” Liam asked as we walked.
“Who, Abby?” I shrugged. “She’s smart. Seems like she knows what she’s doing.”
“Just remember that you don’t have any reason to trust her,” Liam said.
“And what reason do I have to trust you, Liam Kapoor?” I asked.
“My good looks and ravishing accent,” he replied. I shook my head, chuckling, but there was a strain in his voice.
“Are you all right?” I asked him. “I know this is a lot.”
“That’s a hard question to answer, for me. Even in the most normal of times,” he confessed. “I often find that the moment I think the answer is yes, I’m about to fall into a hole again. All of this... It’s almost pleasant to have something to be afraid and angry about that’s real, and not just a chemical imbalance trying to mess with me.”
“I think I know what you mean,” I replied. “It’s not quite the same, but knowing that this is real, and that I haven’t been imagining it all my life? It’s weirdly a relief.”
