Chapter Two: What the Locker Knew
By the time campus security finished photographing her locker, Wren had said the word fine so many times that it had stopped meaning anything, and Kai Hartley had not once looked away from her while she said it.
"I'm fine," she told the school's head of security, a heavyset man named Ferris who kept glancing at Kai like he wasn't sure which of them was actually in charge here. "It's a note. People write notes."
"People don't usually write notes about stopping corporate votes," Kai said, not unkindly, from where he stood exactly one pace behind her shoulder. "Ms. Calloway would like campus security to log this as a threat, not a prank."
"Would she," Wren said.
"She would," Kai said, "once she's done being angry that I'm right."
He isn't wrong. That's the worst part.
"For what it's worth," Ferris said, glancing between them like a man trying to referee a sport he hadn't been told the rules of, "the school takes threats against students very seriously."
"The school takes threats against donors' daughters very seriously," Wren said. "Let's not pretend it's the same thing for everyone."
"That's a separate conversation," Kai said, "and not one we're having with the man holding the evidence bag."
"Was I wrong, though?"
"You weren't wrong. You were also not helping." He said it without heat, the way he seemed to say most things, and Wren found herself, absurdly, fighting a smile in the middle of what was supposed to be a crisis.
Ferris took the note in a paper evidence sleeve, promised to review the hallway cameras, and left with the particular relief of a man glad to hand a problem to someone else. When he was gone, Wren finally let herself sag back against the cool metal of the lockers, and Kai, for once, didn't say anything about professional distance. He just stood there, close enough that she could feel it, until her heartbeat settled back into something ordinary.
"You should go home," he said eventually. "I already called it in. Your father wants you back at the house until we know more."
"And do what? Sit in my room and wait to be told it's safe to have a life again?"
"That's the job, Wren." It was the first time he'd used her first name without her father's title stapled onto it, and something in her chest did an inconvenient, complicated thing in response. "Sitting still isn't losing. It's strategy."
"Sitting still is what people do right before something happens to them anyway," she said, and walked away before he could answer that, because she didn't trust what her voice would do if she stayed.
He caught up with her at the parking lot without seeming to hurry at all, which she was beginning to understand was a skill of his, arriving exactly when he intended to and never a second before.
"You're not actually going to let me walk to my own car alone, are you," she said.
"No."
"Even though there are two other agents stationed at both exits, and a camera on every light pole between here and the gate."
"Especially because of that," Kai said. "People who plan things count on exactly that kind of confidence. It's the confidence that gets exploited first."
"You have an answer for everything."
"I have an answer for the things that keep you alive. Everything else I make up as I go, same as anyone." He opened her car door before she reached for the handle herself, an old fashioned little gesture that felt at odds with everything else about him, and stepped back to let her in. "Go straight home. I'll follow behind, not beside. Standard protocol."
"You keep saying protocol like it's a person you answer to."
"It is, in a way," he said. "It's the only thing standing between me doing this job well and doing it by feel, and feel gets people killed."
She thought about that the whole drive home, the particular loneliness in a boy who trusted a rulebook more than his own instincts, and found she understood it better than she wanted to.
*
She waited until nine that night, after the house had gone quiet and her father had shut himself in his study with the low murmur of a call to the board, before she pulled on a jacket over her pajamas and let herself out through the side door she'd been using since she was fourteen, the one whose alarm sensor had never quite worked right.
She made it as far as the garden gate.
"You could at least pick a door I don't already know about," Kai said, stepping out of the shadow of the hedge like he'd been waiting there for exactly this, which, she realized with a slow, mortifying certainty, he probably had.
"You're supposed to be off shift."
"I'm never off shift. That's what the job means." He fell into step beside her instead of turning her back toward the house, which surprised her enough that she nearly missed what he said next. "Where were you going."
"Ashcombe. The security office keeps a paper log of locker assignments going back three years. If someone requested my locker number, or the one next to it, there'd be a record."
"That's actually a good idea," he said, sounding faintly annoyed that it was.
"Say that again. Slower. I want to remember it."
"I said it once. I'm not required to repeat compliments."
"Was that a compliment? It sounded more like you were personally offended that I had a good idea."
"I'm personally offended every time you have a good idea that also involves you leaving the house without telling me," Kai said. "The two things are related. I need you to understand that."
"Noted. File it under things Kai finds personally offensive, right next to convenient."
"There's room on that list," he said, and something in his voice, dry and almost warm, made her look over at him in the dark to check whether he was actually fighting a smile. He was.
"You could have told me that instead of standing behind hedges."
"I was going to let you get to the car," Kai said. "Then I was going to drive you, because you walking to Ashcombe alone at nine at night defeats the entire purpose of what I'm here for."
She didn't have an answer for that, so she got into the car.
*
The security office was empty, the log easier to find than either of them expected, and it told them exactly nothing, no name attached to the locker two down from Wren's that had sat empty since October. It was on the drive back, the two of them alone in the dark with the heater ticking, that Wren finally asked the question she'd been holding since the study that morning.
"Why security? You could have picked anything. You're smart enough for anything."
Kai was quiet long enough that she thought he wouldn't answer.
"My mom did this. Close protection, before me." His eyes stayed on the road, and his voice, when it came, had lost its usual flatness, gone rough at the edges instead. "She was good at it. Best in her firm. Then a job went wrong when I was twelve, someone she was protecting got hurt on her watch, not badly, but enough that she blamed herself for it every day since, and she never worked a full detail again."
"That wasn't your fault."
"I know that." He said it too fast, the way people say things they've decided to believe rather than things they actually do. "I'm not doing this to fix what happened to her. I'm doing it because I'm good at the thing she taught me, and because if I'm ever standing where she was standing, I want to already know what to do."
I want to already know what to do. Wren turned the sentence over in her head, and it didn't sound like a job description anymore. It sounded like a boy trying very hard not to become his own worst fear.
"Kai."
"Don't," he said, gently, glancing at her for the first time since the story started. "Don't say anything nice about it. I'll lose my nerve."
She laughed, actually laughed, surprised out of her, and for one block of quiet street the car felt like the safest place she'd been all day.
*
Milo found her at her locker the next morning before she'd even set down her bag, which should have told her something by itself, since Milo Draven was constitutionally incapable of arriving anywhere before he had to.
"I heard about the note," he said, low, glancing up and down the hallway like he was checking who might overhear, though the hallway was nearly empty. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Milo."
"You'd tell me if you weren't." It wasn't a question this time. His eyes moved past her shoulder to where Kai stood at what had already become his customary distance, and something flickered across Milo's face too quickly for Wren to name it before he smoothed it back into concern. "I just mean, whatever's going on with the merger, whatever this is about, you don't have to handle it alone. I'm right here."
"I know you are." She meant it kindly. She had known Milo three years; there was no reason not to.
"Good," he said, and reached out, just for a second, and squeezed her hand before she'd decided whether to let him, his fingers cool and a beat too steady for someone simply offering comfort. "Whatever you need, Wren. I mean that."
He was gone before she could answer, folded back into the hallway crowd with the same unhurried ease he brought to everything, and it wasn't until she turned to find Kai watching Milo's retreating back with an expression she'd never seen on him before, focused and unreadable and entirely without its usual calm, that she understood something about that exchange had unsettled him far more than a locker note ever had.
"What," she said.
"Nothing," Kai said, which was, she was learning fast, exactly what he said when it was something.
"You know," Wren said, watching him watch the empty hallway where Milo had disappeared, "for someone who claims not to have feelings about the job, you're doing a remarkable impression of someone who's furious."
"I don't get furious. I get thorough."
"You looked like you wanted to follow him down the hallway and interrogate him against a locker."
"I wanted to ask him a very specific, very calm question," Kai said. "There's a difference between that and furious."
"What question?"
"Whether he's always in the habit of showing up exactly when something's gone wrong, or whether that was new." He shouldered his bag, the easy, unreadable calm sliding back over his face like a curtain drawn shut. "I'm sure it's nothing. I'm thorough about nothing, too."
"That almost sounded like a joke."
"Don't tell anyone," Kai said. "I have a reputation to protect. Yours, specifically, at the moment, but a reputation nonetheless."
She laughed, and if it came out a little unsteady, a little more grateful than the joke strictly deserved, neither of them mentioned it.