Sign Here(3)

“We didn’t use pens.”

I forgot that pens were an upper-level treat.

“Right,” I said. “It’s been a while since I was on the bottom floors. Well, the first five pens you try won’t work, but, you know, you’ve gotta try them anyway.”

“Wow,” Cal said, throwing her pen in the trash. “Thanks for the tip!”

I stood up and paused, unsure if I should walk away or wait for her. As she started gathering her things, I lingered, pushing my chair in farther than it needed to go. I would stay and help out the newb. Courtesy was stark in Hell.

She tried to pick up her binder, but it toppled from her arms and landed on the floor.

“I’ll carry it for you,” I said, picking it up and tucking it under my arm.

“Oh . . . okay, thanks. Thank you.”

“So, got this bad boy memorized yet?” I asked.

“We have to memorize it?”

I laughed. “Not exactly, but you might lose the nickname if you can answer KQ’s questions quicker.”

“It’s a lot, isn’t it? All of the rules, the goals, the terminology . . . it’s very different from the Third Floor.”

“The main thing to remember is the Specs. You can spend your whole time here going after Ones and Twos, but you don’t make the big numbers until you start focusing on Fives.”

Cal sighed.

“Yeah, okay, Fives take the most work. For sure. But if you want to make a splash around here, I would recommend tracking a couple, just in case.”

“Maybe I’ll just give up now, change my name to ‘Disease-Carrying Vermin,’ and be done with it,” she said. I racked my brain for encouragement, but then I saw that she was smiling. It was a good smile. Small, but good.

“It’s not the worst name I’ve heard KQ call someone,” I said. “It’s kind of cute, actually.”

There went her blood again, all over.

“Thanks, Peyote.” She stopped in front of her cubicle and took her binder from under my arm.

“Call me Pey.”

“Thanks, Pey,” she said, and smiled once more before ducking behind her divider.



* * *



—

THE FIRST THING I did when I sat down at my desk was check on the Harrisons. I had four generations of Harrisons under my belt. All I needed was one more, my Spencer Norwood, and I would have a Complete Set. One more direct-descendant-Harrison deal, and everything I had done—everything done to me—would be worth it.

I turned on my monitor, and the white house with the black shutters appeared in front of me, late-afternoon light lapping at the weathered clapboard like the tide on a boat. It was empty now, but they would be there soon, and I liked the way it looked when it was empty. Like it was waiting for them.

Evan built that house with his dad, after he dropped out of school to join the family business. Evan was my fourth Harrison, but I have to admit I didn’t think it would be him. I was tracking his debt-heavy sister right up until the day Evan called, palms down on the dining room table, a second cup of tea across from his. I liked Evan; he knew exactly what he wanted. His son, Silas, and his daughter-in-law, Lily, proved harder. That happens sometimes with generations. One person makes a deal: I’ll sell my soul if my family never wants for anything. And then their family gets well and accustomed to never wanting for anything, and they don’t need to make any deals. But you know what always happens the generation after that? They make the biggest deals of all. They are so used to wanting for nothing, they take to wanting with an appetite.

I had a good feeling about the older grandchild, Sean. He was into some sick shit on the Internet. Never underestimate teenage hormones high on dungeon porn.

The younger one, Mickey, was different. She wasn’t exactly clean; she had her own sticky parts. But she was quieter in her head than Sean, which made her more intriguing. She felt like her grandpa. Of course, I celebrated the night I signed Evan; he was my fourth Harrison. But it didn’t feel like I thought it would. Somehow, I walked away feeling like it was me who got played. Mickey made me feel the same way, and I liked it. Sean was my safety school; Mickey was my reach.

But then there was Ruth.

None of us were prepared for Ruth.





LILY





“YOU’LL ONLY BE A few hours away,” Gavin said, tracing the line of Lily’s underwear where it hit that tattoo she got on her eighteenth birthday. The one she pretended she regretted, but that she still secretly loved as much as the day she got it.

“It might as well be a world away,” Lily answered, pulling her shirt over her head. Gavin’s hand fell back to the bedspread. Lily freed her blond hair from her collar, feeling the weight of it on her shoulders. Gavin loved her hair. They all did.

“I could come up there, come see you.”

Lily inhaled to button her jeans. She could feel the cold, dirty thing slither into her gut.

“No, you can’t.”

Gavin didn’t respond.

“Gav, you know you can’t.”

She turned and looked at him. He was working his belt buckle into the third loop, sitting on the edge of the bed. She watched his hands, the way they gripped the leather.

“It’ll be six weeks,” she said. “And I’ll see you before I go. At least once, I promise.” Gavin let go of his belt and grabbed her wrist, pulling her whole structure down.