The Archived by Victoria Schwab Page A

It’s so easy for her. “You make me sound like an overachiever.”
    I feel the scratch of letters and pull the list from my jeans.
    Alex King. 13.
    “That’s because you are an overachiever,” I say.
    “I just like to stay busy.”
    Come over here, then, I think, pocketing the list. This place would keep you busy.
    I distinctly hear the thrum of guitar strings. “What’s that noise?” I ask.
    “I’m tuning, that’s all.”
    “Lyndsey Newman, do you actually have me on speaker just so you can talk and tune
     a guitar at the same time? You’re jeopardizing the sanctity of our conversations.”
    “Relax. The parents have vacated. Some kind of gala. They left in fancy dress an hour
     ago. What about yours?”
    I find two notes on the kitchen counter.
    My mother’s reads: Store! Love, Mom.
    My father’s reads: Checking in at work. –D
    “Similarly out,” I say, “but minus the fancy dress and the togetherness.”
    I retreat to the bedroom.
    “The place to yourself?” she says. “I hope you’re having a party.”
    “I can barely hear over the music and drinking games. I better tell them to quiet
     down before someone calls the cops.”
    “Talk soon, okay?” she says. “I miss you.” She really means it.
    “I miss you, Lynds.” I mean it too.
    The phone goes dead. I toss it onto the bed and stare down at the faded spots on my
     floor.
    Questions eat at me. What happened in this room? Who was the boy? And whose blood
     was he covered in? Maybe it’s not my job, maybe it’s an infraction to find out, a
     misuse of power, but every member of the Archive takes the same oath.
    We protect the past. And the way I see it, that means we need to understand it.
    And if neither Lyndsey’s search engines nor Ms. Angelli are going to tell me anything,
     I’ll have to see for myself. I tug the ring from my finger, and before I can chicken
     out, I kneel, press my hands to the floor, and reach.

NINE
    T HERE IS A GIRL sitting on a bed, knees pulled up beneath her chin.
    I run the memories back until I find the small calendar by the bed that reads MARCH , the blue dress on the corner chair, the black book on the table by the bed. Da was
     right. Bread crumbs and bookmarks. My fingers found their way.
    The girl on the bed is thin in a delicate way, with light blond hair that falls in
     waves around her narrow face. She is younger than I am, and talking to the boy with
     the bloodstained hands, only right now his hands are still clean. Her words are a
     murmur, nothing more than static, and the boy won’t stand still. I can tell by the
     girl’s eyes that she’s talking slowly, insistently, but the boy’s replies are urgent,
     punctuated by his hands, which move through the air in sweeping gestures. He can’t
     be much older than she is, but judging by his feverish face and the way he sways,
     he’s been drinking. He looks like he’s about to be sick. Or scream.
    The girl sees it too, because she slides from the bed and offers him a glass of water
     from the top of the dresser. He knocks the glass away hard and it shatters, the sound
     little more than a crackle. His fingers dig into her arm. She pushes him away a few
     times before he loses his grip and stumbles back into the bed frame. She turns, runs.
     He’s up, swiping a large shard of glass from the floor. It cuts into his hand as he
     lunges for her. She’s at the door when he reaches her, and they tumble into the hall.
    I drag my hand along the floor until I can see them through the doorway, and then
     I wish I couldn’t. He’s on top of her, and they are a tangle of glass and blood and
     fighting limbs, her slender bare feet kicking under him as he pins her down.
    And then the struggle slows. And stops.
    He drops the shard beside her body and staggers to his feet, and I can see her, the
     lines carved across her arms, the far deeper cut across her throat. The shard pressed
     into her own palm. He stands over her a moment before turning back