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.

Black 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.