I'm back on my bed, but this time, I'm not watching the news. I'm holding a tiny, broken piece of mechanical pencil lead in my palm, staring at it like it holds the secrets of the universe.
This was supposed to be smart. This was supposed to be clever. I spent actual, valuable brain cells positioning it just so in the hinge of our bedroom door, wedged so delicately that even the slightest motion would snap it. It was supposed to tell me if Kate came home while I was asleep.
And now, staring at the tiny, pitifully broken fragment in my hand, I realize: I have learned absolutely nothing. Because, yes, obviously, Kate came home. I can see her. She is literally right there, asleep in bed, breathing in and out, completely unbothered by my incredible detective work and MacGuyvered spycraft. Wow. Amazing. Fantastic. What an absolutely crucial breakthrough.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and groan.
This is so stupid.
I keep doing this--coming up with these clever, convoluted little ways to outsmart reality, but when the dust settles, I'm left holding useless scraps of information that don't actually help me. It's like--like, I can assemble this massive conspiracy wall in my head, linking together all the little pieces of evidence, but I can't get the damn thumbtacks to stay in the corkboard.
Because here's what I do know.
1. Kate is always out. I don't know where she goes, but she's not here most nights. And she's quiet about it. Not sneaky, exactly--just precise. A person who's used to getting around unnoticed.
2. Kate has painted nails. Not shocking. But so does Soot. And they're both white, lily white. Like, their skin, not their nails. Sure, Kate's nails aren't the same color as Soot's last time I saw Soot, and Kate doesn't have that shade of pink in her lineup, but couldn't she just have painted over them?
3. Soot and Kate have never existed in the same place at the same time. And yes, okay, that's the kind of logic that makes conspiracy theorists look stupid, but still. It's a pattern.
4. Liam got money, a ton of money, from "anonymous benefactors in the community". I don't know why. I don't know from who. But it came exactly when Soot started working the city.
5. Kate nearly died in a house fire from smoke inhalation. And then a new vigilante, who controls smoke, appeared. Wow! Crazy.
It's all right there. It's been right there for weeks, but I've been too busy running at full sprint to actually sit down and process it. And now that I finally have time--now that I'm stuck in this room with nothing but my own thoughts--I can't shake the feeling that I am so close to the answer, like a name on the tip of my tongue. I'm not stupid. I'm not oblivious.
I just need proof. I need one undeniable, concrete piece of evidence that I can confront her with and then I can move on with my life. Instead, I have... a piece of broken pencil lead. I let out another groan and flop onto my back. The ceiling stares back at me in judgment. I really thought that was going to work?
My phone buzzes next to me, shaking me out of my spiral. I glance at the screen:
Maggie:
> You ever see Misery?
I frown and type back.
Me:
> The book or the movie?
Maggie:
> Either. You're Annie Wilkes. The pencil lead thing is the taped hair on the door handle.
I scowl at my phone.
Me:
> I'm not about to hobble Kate for going outside.
Maggie:
> Just saying. I bet she'd hate that you're doing this.
Me:
> Then she should stop being suspicious.
Maggie:
> LMAO okay. I'll let her know.
I let my phone drop onto my chest, exhaling sharply. It's not like I want to be doing this. It's just--if Kate is Soot, and I don't figure it out before things get worse, how am I supposed to live with that? This whole sequence of events is my fault. She wouldn't have been Soot - if she is - if Aaron never came back for revenge.
I roll onto my side and scroll absently through my messages. Jordan, naturally, has sent ten different voice messages to the group chat in the last hour, none of which I am going to listen to. Instead, I just type:
Me:
> I hate being on house arrest.
>
> A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Jordan:
> If I had a dollar for every time you texted me that, I'd have enough to bail you out of house arrest.
Me:
> I tried a whole clever surveillance trick and got literally nothing.
Jordan:
> Oh my god are you overcomplicating things again
Me:
> Shut up.
Jordan:
> Just set up your laptop camera.
I blink.
Me:
> ???
Jordan:
> Point it at the door. Leave it running overnight.
Me:
> G-d damnit.
Jordan:
> You're mad you didn't think of it first.
I purse my lips. I refuse to admit this.
----------------------------------------
By the time I actually start setting up my laptop, I have fully committed.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, screwdriver in hand, carefully prying open the screen casing. I am thorough. I am not an amateur. I know that everything that records stuff has the little red light. I don't need Kate getting suspicious about a weird little glowing dot in the dark. Once I manage to wedge a tiny square of electrical tape inside, I carefully snap the screen back into place and lean back, satisfied. No indicator light. No way to tell it's recording.
This is the kind of stuff that makes my neurons do a happy little jig. I think Diane would be proud of me. I set the laptop up on my desk, angle the camera toward the door, and open the recording software. The preview window stares back at me--a grainy, low-light image of my room, the door just barely in frame.
I click record.
And then I get into bed, roll over, and sleep like a dumbass.
----------------------------------------
Thursday morning comes with an uninteresting shade of grey. I sit up, stretch, and reach for my laptop with entirely too much confidence.
Click. Open the file. That's weird, why did it stop recording on its own? I press play.
For thirty solid minutes, my empty room stares back at me. Then--black screen.
I blink. Click around. The recording stops after half an hour exactly. I think in my heart I already know what happened, but I don't want to think it too loud. Slowly, I go to my power settings.
Power saver mode: enabled. Auto-sleep after 30 minutes of inactivity.
I stare at it. I close my laptop. I bury my face in my hands.
----------------------------------------
I'm flipping between my homework and my actual work, which means I am getting neither done.
The spreadsheet on my laptop is half-filled with timestamps and location markers, cross-referenced with news alerts, group chat messages, and Mappo's online GPS. I should be working on my math homework, but every time I try, I end up tabbing back to the spreadsheet.
It's fine. It's productive procrastination. At least I'm not just staring at the wall. I'm calculating the maximum range of travel time between our house and the last confirmed Soot sighting when I hear a knock on my door.
I stiffen instinctively, but force myself to exhale through my nose, keeping my expression neutral.
"Yeah?"
Dad steps inside, casual but deliberate, and without even glancing at the screen, I already know he clocked that I wasn't actually doing homework. I also know he's not here to call me on it. Not yet. He doesn't sit at my desk or lean against the doorframe. Instead, he crosses the room and sits on my bed--next to me, not across from me, which means this isn't going to be a lecture. He's signaling something else.
I keep typing, keeping my attention locked on the screen. If I don't look at him, maybe he'll change his mind and leave. No such luck.
"You look busy," he says, voice even.
"Homework," I reply automatically.
There's a pause. Not the judging kind--more like he's giving me a chance to correct myself. I don't.
"And how's that going?"
"Same as always," I say, still not looking at him.
He doesn't push. He doesn't pry. He just waits, and I hate how effective it is. Finally, after way too long, he exhales and says, "You know, I was your age once."
I glance at him, skeptical, no longer typing. "No offense, but you were in school before smartphones, so."
He snorts. "Before superhumans, too," he says. I smirk a little, but the humor doesn't stick, because when I look back at him, he isn't smiling anymore. "Which means I had less to worry about," he says.
I set my laptop aside. "Okay. What's this actually about?"
"It's about how you've been acting," he says. "Not just lately. For a while now."
I sit cross-legged, watching him, already braced for whatever he thinks he's figured out. I'm sure he's got a perfect read on me - not. He sighs, rubbing his hands together, choosing his words carefully. "When I was your age, I thought adults had everything figured out. That there was some point where you wake up and just... know how to handle things. But you don't. You fake it, and hope no one notices. Hell, I'm-- you know, I'm old, but I still feel like I'm 18 and just going through the motions. Once you reach a certain point that's just you now."
I brace for impact while he glances at me. "The problem is, you don't even try to fake it."
I frown. "What does that mean?"
He holds my gaze, voice steady. "It means you act like someone who doesn't expect to be around long enough to have to figure it out."
Something tightens in my chest. I cross my arms. "I'm not planning to die, Dad."
"No," he agrees. "You just act like it wouldn't be a problem if you did."
I exhale through my nose, annoyed. Frustrated. This is--it's not like that. It's not.
"I'm not throwing myself in front of bullets for fun," I snap. "I just--this stuff needs to get done. I can do it. So why wouldn't I?"
"Because that's not how you see other people," he says, his response immediate.
I blink. "What?"
Dad leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice calm but firm. "If Jordan got hurt like you did fighting Chernobyl, you'd be losing your mind. If I threw myself into traffic because someone had to do it, you'd be furious."
He doesn't wait for me to respond--just keeps pushing, keeps pressing.
"But when it's you? When you're the one getting hurt? It's just--next thing, next problem, move on."
I look away, fingers curling into the fabric of my sweatpants.
It's not the same. Jordan--Dad--they're not me. They don't have this, the way I do. I can take it. I can handle it. "That's different," I say.
"How?"
"Because I can come back," I snap.
Dad exhales through his nose. "That's not an answer. You weren't just in a coma," he says after a beat. "You missed months of your life."
I go rigid. I don't want to talk about this.
"How much do you even remember from last year, February? The spring?" he asks, and it's--he's not asking it like a gotcha, like a trap. He's asking it like he already knows what I'm going to say.
I set my jaw. "I was recovering."
"No," Dad says, quieter. "You were waiting."
Something in my stomach twists.
"You weren't recovering. You weren't healing. You were just waiting until you could get back in the fight." He hesitates, watching me, then says, "And I think that's the part that scares me."
I cross my arms, bristling. I hate this. I hate how he's framing it like I--like I don't care. "So what," I mutter. "I'm supposed to just sit back and let other people take the hit? How is that fair?"
Dad's quiet for a long moment. Then, voice low, he says; "You're not supposed to pretend the hit doesn't matter."
He doesn't move. He doesn't stand up, doesn't act like this conversation is over. He's still on my bed, still waiting for me to actually hear him. I pick at my sleeve, jaw tight. I want to tell him he's wrong. I want to tell him this is stupid, that I know what I'm doing, that I've already thought about all of this and none of it changes anything.