Our eyes meet, and I sense we’re level with each other, even though he stands much taller than me. His hands slide down my arms, and without thinking I ask the first question that comes to my lips. “Why are you so hard on me?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because I like you.”

My stomach constricts.

“But I’m not supposed to like you,” he whispers, wrinkling his nose. “It complicates things.”

“Is liking me against Keystone Code?” I ask.

“Sort of.” He chews his lip. “But just so you know, whatever happens out there”—he points at a window—“you know the truth in here.” He thumps his hand over my heart, and I’m sure he can feel it pounding.

I search his eyes, trying to make sense of what he’s telling me, but they’re returning to their usual unidentifiable mix of humor and superiority. Whatever window I had to his soul is closing.

Checking his watch, he sighs. “I’m late. We should go.” Without giving me time to respond, he grabs my hand, guiding me down the stairs and outside. “That was fun. How do you feel?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” It’s the first time I’ve lied to him all night.

“Good.” Dropping my hand, he locks the door behind us. “See you tomorrow, then, Bets.”

Raising his eyebrows, he bumps his forehead against mine before jogging down the porch steps and heading for the woods, leaving me to stare after him.

I’m so confused.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

January 4, 20X6, Keystone

My evening now wide open, I head to the Vault. I have no clue what just happened with Garrett, and rather than analyze our conversation to death, I grab my journal, grateful I have the past to distract me.

March 2, 20X5

Truth: We are all liars.

Under the cover of the black-and-white umbrella, I ducked into the Anonymous, the basement pub on River Street where Crystal was waiting. With exposed brick walls and a small collection of rickety tables surrounded by barrel chairs, it was dim, dank, and sour. She sat alone at a table, the sole patron except for a few early-morning drinkers posted up at the bar. After the dark night, I would have preferred to soak in the light of the market, but I wasn’t in a position to disobey orders.

“Thank you for meeting me,” she said as I sat, her voice low. She wore a fitted gray jacket and a hat with black net draped over one eye. Her makeup was pale, the only pop of color the shell pink that zig-zagged across her lips.

“Of course,” I whispered.

“You don’t need the umbrella here,” she said. “I know the owners—they’re Disconnect-friendly. This place is off the grid, so you can speak freely.”