Page 22 of The Sixth Fraction

“Recognized her from where?”

“It was . . . it was Evelyn Eaton,” I say, and I can’t help but look at Marcus to gauge his reaction.

But he doesn’t seem angry. Instead, he laughs a little.

“Beatrice.” My father’s soft voice now sounds condescending instead of kind. “You remember Evelyn Eaton’s funeral, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” There’s an edge to my voice that will get me in trouble, I just know it. I have to keep myself under control. “I told you, it was dark.”

“Andrew, you argued for bringing your daughter here because you were certain she had something compelling to offer,” Marcus says. “But if she’s just making up ghost stories—”

“It’s not a ghost story.” I scowl at him. Why is he talking to me like I’m some child who sees phantoms in the dark? “And I’m not making it up.”

“Now, Marcus, the past week has been traumatic for our young ones—” Abigail Baker says.

“I’m not traumatized, either!” I can’t stop myself. It’s too late. “I thought I was imagining it, but yesterday I was in the reading room, and—”

“You were . . . where?” my father asks.

I wince. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m not supposed to walk around at night.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I say. “So—I went for a walk. And I found a reading room with photographs of the council members. I just wanted to see ours, but . . . when I looked at the council leader’s—”

Marcus’s jaw tightens. He meets my eyes.

“It was her,” I say. I didn’t know how sure I was about what I saw until they all questioned it, questioned me. But now I know: I saw Evelyn Eaton, and I saw her carrying a gun, right after Robert Black was shot.

He holds my gaze for just a moment longer, and then looks across the table at my father. It’s as if the two of them are having a conversation.

“This doesn’t rise to the level of—” my father begins.

“Yes, it does,” Marcus snaps.

My father has a look on his face that I’ve never seen before. Imploring.

Desperate.

Then he sighs.

“If you could give us the room,” he says, and at first I think he’s asking me to leave, but it’s Abigail and Marcus who come to their feet. All I hear is the shuffling of their clothes as they walk out of the Memory Vault and close the door behind them.

“What’s going on?” I say to my father.

“Don’t worry, Beatrice, we’re almost finished here,” he says. “But I want you to think about all the times you’ve wondered about Evelyn in the past week. Would you say she’s been on your mind often?”

“Why does it matter?” I say.

“I just want to know how much it’s been bothering you.”

I scowl. “You think I’m traumatized, too, don’t you.”

“Beatrice—”

“I’m sad,” I say. “I’m upset. I can’t sleep. But it’s not making me see things that aren’t there.”

“I believe you.” My father reaches across the table and covers my hand with his own. “I know how observant you are, Beatrice. You always knew when your mother and I were fighting, or when one of the others was coming down with something. You were so good at those puzzles, the ones where you have to find each object in the big picture—”

“Search puzzles,” I say.