“Maybe?” I shrug, still sifting through canvases. “He left those clues specifically for you, but let’s be honest—he didn’t know you that long. I guess he saw how close you were to Harley in that short amount of time and figured the best way to leave the clues was with his paintings.” Amy doesn’t notice the bitterness in my voice; even Orion could see that she was closer to Harley than she was to me.

“So where is this painting?” Amy asks.

“Don’t know. It used to be on the wall.”

“Where?” Amy calls. She’s moved to the center of the room, examining the only wall that isn’t decorated with art.

“Over there, actually,” I say. I get to the end of the first row of Harley’s canvases and start in on the second. “Anyway, Orion told Harley that good paintings all have titles. Harley said he didn’t think paintings needed names, but Orion made a big deal out of it and called the painting—”

“Through the Looking Glass,” Amy says.

“Yeah.” I glance back at her. She’s bending in front of the blank wall, reading a tiny placard.

“Through the Looking Glass, Oil Painting by Harley, Feeder,” she reads. She turns back to me. “But where is it? There’s a hook here for the painting, but no painting.”

“It’s not here, either,” I say, pushing aside the stack of paintings.

“This must have been an important painting—it’s the only one that has a placard.”

Amy’s right. The rest of the room is a bit of a mess, but this blank wall is neat, clearly sectioned off. It’s obviously meant to be the center of attention, even if there’s nothing left to direct one’s attention to.

“Orion names the painting, he hangs it in the center of the room, he bothers to get a placard made that shows the title of the painting—this has to be the next clue he wanted us to find.” Her green eyes search mine, as if she could see Harley’s art in them.

I move to stand beside Amy, staring at the empty wall. “But where’s the painting?”

20

AMY

“WHO WOULD TAKE IT?” I ASK. “SOMEONE CLOSE TO HARLEY?”

“He didn’t have many friends. Me—Bartie, Victria.”

“One of them?”

Elder shakes his head. I believe him—Bartie’s too serious to think of stealing a painting, and while Victria would have no qualms about it, she’d pick a painting of Orion, not Kayleigh, judging by the sketch she stole from Harley’s room. “And I know Doc wouldn’t.”

I snort. No, Doc wouldn’t.

“Unless . . .”

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Harley’s parents might have. . . .”

For some reason, this surprises me. I didn’t really think of Harley having parents. He just . . . was. And while I know that the people living in the Ward were separated from the rest of the Feeders on purpose, it just didn’t occur to me that there was anything of Harley outside of the Hospital and the stars.