Run to You Part Three: Third Charm. Clara Kensie

stopped at the last door in the hall. “This is Dr. Sheldon’s office,” he whispered, and turned the knob. “Locked. Damn.” He turned to Weasel Face. “Do you have the key?”

      “Nope.”

      Before I could even begin to be disappointed, Weasel Face bent his fingers into a claw and stared hard at the knob. He swiveled his hand in the air, and a few seconds later I heard a tiny click.

      “Nice,” Tristan said. “You’re psychokinetic?”

      “Kinda. Ferrokinetic. I can manipulate metal.” He pointed to his belt buckle, which was twisted into a big, stylized G. “I just made this tonight,” he said. “It’s for the Green Bay Packers.”

      I gave him a whispered, slow ooooo, like I was awed by his handiwork. He beamed and pushed the door open.

      Tristan ushered me inside. A computer monitor was on and gave the room an eerie blue glow. The monitor sat on a utilitarian desk, cluttered with papers, pens and old cups of coffee. A garbage can stuffed to overflowing sat in the corner. Black filing cabinets lined the back wall. Stacked haphazardly on top of the filing cabinet was a pile of manila folders with papers sticking out, old date books and a vase holding a dusty silk flower.

      And balanced precariously on the very edge of the cabinets were four green binders. I could just make out the code running down the spine of the top one: CARS0520.

      Tristan and I glanced at each other, then he turned to Weasel Face. “So, buddy, where you from? Who recruited you?”

      “I’m from Sioux Falls,” the guard said. “Ted Rigby found me. I was just working for a mechanic, doing oil changes and pretending to pound out dents. Now I’m here. Wild.”

      “Yeah, Rigby’s great. How long have you been working here?”

      While Tristan kept Weasel Face occupied, I grabbed the binder, then slipped it under my top, grateful I was wearing Tristan’s huge sweatshirt. Dr. Sheldon’s office was so messy, hopefully she would just assume she’d misplaced the binder. I put a confused look on my face. “I don’t see it.”

      Tristan played along, pretending to look around the office. “I don’t either.”

      “What are you looking for?” Weasel Face asked.

      “Um, my Green Bay Packers sweatshirt,” Tristan said. “It’s lucky. Every time she wears it, they win.”

      Weasel Face pursed his lips as he scanned the office. “I don’t see it. Damn.”

      I swapped my confused expression for a disappointed one. “I hope the Packers can win without me.”

      “Hopefully,” Tristan said, and smiled. We work well together, his smile seemed to say.

      Yeah. We do, I smiled back.

      Too bad for him this was the last time.

      Chapter Forty

      Weasel Face—who no longer seemed so weasely—escorted Tristan and me back through the hallways and down the elevator to the Underground. Tristan gave him a handshake and a promise to go out to watch the Green Bay Packers soon, then suggested it would be awesome if he would disable the surveillance camera over the door. With a conspiratorial grin, Weasel Face wiggled his index finger at it. Tristan quickly steered him out, the door sealing shut behind him.

      I took the binder from under my sweatshirt and opened to a random page. A black and white surveillance photo of my parents. Young and serious, they were sitting at an outdoor cafe. Mom was absently fiddling with her wedding ring. Dad was looking at the menu. A completely neutral photo, boring really, but it brought tears to my eyes.

      I flipped through the pages. How odd to see our real names in print after all these years.

      Andrew Carson.

      Gwendolyn Carson.

      Jillian. Tessa. Logan.

      We’d wiped away our identities with each move, and this binder held the only proof of our existence.

      Clips from my father’s newspaper columns when he wrote as Xander Xavier.

      A picture of our big red brick house in Virginia, standing majestically over an expansive lawn.

      My parents’ old financial records. “See, Tristan? They really did make all that money,” I said. “Paychecks. Stock market investments. It’s all right here. All legal.”

      “They wouldn’t mark their blackmail payments as blackmail. They’d mark them as stock market investments.”

      I glared at him for a full minute before returning to the binder.

      Another photo of our house, this time reduced to rubble and ashes.

      Pictures of some of the other houses and apartments we’d lived in.

      Testimonies from our old neighbors.

      A list of our aliases.

      Phone records. My parents were right to get rid of our landline.

      A list of websites we’d visited. My parents were right to get rid of our internet access too.

      Reports from various precognitives and psychics, including a child’s drawing of twelve blue, misshapen circles with wave symbols. “What’s this?” I asked Tristan.

      “Twelve lakes,” he said. “That’s how we knew you would go there.”

      In the binder, Dennis Connelly had written notes about where we’d been and where he guessed we might go next. We were always careful not to leave anything personal behind, but he still found a few items. Those items he brought back to the APR for psychometric readings, and he also flew psychics out to the homes we’d fled. Several times he’d noted his frustration that the psychics were never able to get a clear reading on our family through the objects or places we’d left behind.

      I read every detail of a receipt from an electronics store near our hideout in Seattle, back when we were the Abbott family. My name was Amanda for about ten months. Jillian was Allison and Logan was Alexander. The receipt showed that we’d paid cash for a DVD player and a stack of Disney movies.

      One of the papers was a program from a dance recital. The name Renee Roberts was circled on the program—Jillian’s alias in Oregon. My pseudonym had been Rachel, and Logan’s had been Ryan. I’d wanted the name Rebecca but my father had said no. Jillian didn’t appear in the class picture with the other little ballerinas, but my parents had been upset that her name was in print. We’d fled to our next hideout soon after that.

      Logan had left behind one of the music scores he’d written when we lived in Florida. Another page was a scan of a painting I’d made in art class, probably when I was eleven. A single petal lying on the ground, broken off from the rest of the flower. What state were we living in then—maybe Missouri? North Carolina? The image on the page was black and white, but I remembered using shades of blue for the petal. It might have been the last painting I’d ever done. It was too painful to paint anyway, knowing my parents would ooh and ahh over it, tell me I was so talented, and then sometime before our next run they would burn it. The canvases wouldn’t fit in my getaway bag, and we could leave nothing personal behind.

      Disney movies, dance recitals, art classes. It was nice to remember that a small part of our childhood had actually been normal. How odd to think that Dennis Connelly was the keeper of my childhood memories.

      D. Connelly was written on the bottom of the earlier reports. Toward the back pages, his name was replaced by J. Kellan. Tristan’s name appeared on some of the reports too.

      My stomach clenched when I saw recent pictures of me. Jogging with Tristan. Walking happily to school holding his hand. In one photo he was laughing as I whispered in his ear. An intimate, happy moment, captured by a long-range surveillance camera.

      Another photo of the two of us sitting on a bench under a leafless