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When he starts puking, I figure that my Wallingford’s AP chemistry class was good for something. I wonder if this would be a good argument to give Dean Wharton in favor of letting me back in.
12
“HEY, GET UP,” SOMEONE is saying. I blink in confusion. I am lying on the downstairs couch and Philip’s standing over me. “You sleep like the dead.”
“If the dead snored,” says Barron. “Hey, good job in here. The living room looks great. Cleaner than I’ve ever seen it.”
Dread coils around my throat, choking me.
I look over at Grandad. He’s still passed out in the reclining chair with a bucket next to him. Grandad was sick for hours, but he seemed fine by the time he fell asleep. Coherent. I would have thought all the noise would have woken him. “What did you give him?” I ask, throwing a leg out from under the afghan.
“He’s fine,” says Philip. “I promise. It will wear off by morning.”
I am reassured by the rise and fall of Grandad’s chest. As I watch him sleep for a moment I think I see his eyelids flicker.
“You always worry,” Barron mumbles. “And we always tell you he’s fine. They’re always fine. Why do you worry so much?”
Philip shoots him a look. “Leave Cassel alone. Family looks out for family.”
Barron laughs. “That’s why he shouldn’t worry. We’re here to look after them both.” He turns to me. “Better get ready fast, though, worrywart. You know how much Anton hates to wait.”
I don’t know what else to do, so I pull on my jeans and zip a hoodie over the T-shirt I slept in.
They seem totally comfortable waiting for me, so comfortable that, thinking over what Barron said, I come to the groggy conclusion that this has all happened before. They’ve gotten me out of this house—maybe my dorm—and I don’t remember a thing. Have I ever panicked? I’m panicking now.
I grab my gloves and slide on a pair of work boots. My hands are trembling with adrenaline and fear—enough that I can barely get the gloves on.
“Let me see your pockets,” Philip says.
“What?” I stop tying the laces to look up at him.
He sighs. “Turn them inside out.”
I do, thinking of the stinging cut in my calf, the charms healing inside my skin. He rubs the pocket cloth, checking for something hidden in it, then pats down my clothes. My hands fist, and I want to take a swing at Philip so much that my arms ache from the strain of not hitting him. “Looking for a mint?”
“We need to know what you’re bringing, is all,” Philip says mildly.
Adrenaline has pushed back exhaustion. I’m wide awake and starting to get angry.
He looks at Barron, who reaches over for my arm. He’s not wearing a glove.
I pull back. “Don’t touch me!”
It’s funny how instinct is; I keep my voice low when I say it. Because in some ridiculous part of my head this is still family business. It doesn’t even occur to me to go for help.
Barron holds up both his hands. “Hey, okay. But this is important. It takes a few minutes for the old memories to settle. Think back. We’re in this together. We’re on the same side.”
That’s when I realize they’ve already worked me. Before they woke me up. My skin crawls with horror and I have to take quick, shallow breaths to keep from running away from them, from the house. This is my chance to find out what’s really going on. I nod, buying myself what time I can. I have no idea what memories they expect me to have.
I watch Barron pull his glove back on and flex his hand, stretching the leather.
I realize what a bare hand means.
Philip isn’t the one behind the stolen memories. Anton’s not the memory worker.
Barron is—he must be. He didn’t lose his memories because he was worked; he’s not absentminded. Every time he takes a memory from me or Maura or all the other people he must be stealing them from, he loses one of his own. Blowback. I search my memories for an occasion when he worked for luck, but there’s nothing, just a dim sense that I know he’s a luck worker. I can’t even recall when I started “knowing” that.
Now that I focus on it, the memory doesn’t even seem real. It slips away from me, like the blurred copy of a copy.
