Verify

by Joelle Charbonneau

  Renu said paper records are impossible to hack. Looking at this room, I have to think that is the reason the city government has these documents stored here. To keep their secrets from people like the Stewards and now me.

  I count the dozens of cabinets in this room, then throw open drawer after drawer. Every single one of them is crammed full. My mother came in here to search for something. I could search for hours and still not find it.

  Feeling the seconds I’ve allowed myself ticking away, I slide out the first file in the front of the drawer and flip it open to examine the papers inside.

  Blueprints for an apartment building. Color schemes and design concepts. Budgets and itemized lists of supplies and costs. None of it seems important until I get to a page with the names of the people who lived in the building being worked on. Next to most of the names was the word “returned.” A few were marked as “resettled.” But there was one followed by the word “transitioned.”

  Transitioned? What did that mean?

  I locate another apartment building project in the drawer and find four names with the “transitioned” distinction. And another with three. None explain what the term means, but a sick feeling grows as I pull out a file with blueprints for an abandoned building that was, according to surveys, too hard to repair. The site was turned into a park. I am about to put the folder back, since an abandoned building wouldn’t have a resident list, when I see a note at the bottom of the final page.

  Twenty-two trespassers now at holding facility waiting transport for transition resettlement.

  I think of what Atlas told me—about the people who just go missing. Were they designated for “transition resettlement” as well?

  My phone beeps. Ten minutes have passed. I need to go. Every minute I spend in here gives them more time to catch me. I take pictures of the files I looked at and shove them back in their drawer. But I don’t leave yet because I realize there is one last thing I need to do.

  I know the address by heart. A week after my mother’s funeral, I took the L and stood on the sidewalk where she had died, angry that there was no sign that she had ever been there. No skid marks, no blood.

  Mrs. Anderson said my mother talked about a future project, so I move to the lone cabinet marked “Long-Term Project Research” and flip through the files.

  “Ow!”

  A thin red line bisects the pad of my index finger. I actually got a cut from paper?

  I stick the cut in my mouth and keep searching with my other hand.

  I don’t see the file I’m looking for in the top drawer or in the two middle ones. My heart ticks off the passing seconds as I rummage through the bottom drawer.

  There. I grab the folder and push the drawer shut. I want to open it, but that will have to wait. I need to get out of here before I get caught. So I shove the folder into my waistband as far as it can go and tug my shirt over the rest. Whatever the folder contains, it is labeled with the exact address where my mother died. I’m not leaving it here for them.

  I flick off the light and put my ear to the door. There is only silence, so I head out into the hall. Instead of the elevator, I head for the stairwell. I barge my way through the door and race down the distinctive corkscrew steps. The muted sounds of voices hit me halfway down. The voices grow louder as the spiral stairs end on the second floor and I head down another set of stairs into the atrium.

  The source of the voices becomes clear. An architecture tour group has arrived.

  I press one of my arms against my midsection to keep the folder in place as I walk down the white-marble-and-wrought-iron staircase that is a focal point of the room. When I reach the bottom, I spot several security officers in a heated conversation near the elevators and veer toward an older couple admiring the impressive light fixtures suspended from the glass ceiling.

  The security officers move closer to the bank of elevators. One of them peers into the atrium and I nod my head as if I’m part of the conversation the couple is having, even though I can’t hear anything over the pounding of my heart. Finally, the guards are gone. I want to run, but I wait for the tour guide to direct everyone to follow her, and I walk with the crowd down the hall, through the revolving door, and out onto the street.

  Then I get the hell out of there. I retrieve my bike and pedal as fast as I can without dislodging the folder still tucked under my clothing. When I’m finally out of the Loop, I spot a mostly empty park and stop. A woman walking her dog smiles at me, and I smile back as I head for a large play area with swings and an enclosed fort at the top of a slide. I climb the ladder, and when I’m safely hidden from view, I peel the folder from my sweaty skin and open it on my lap.

  Like all the other files, it contains blueprints. Only this one has two sets. One from 1992 when the condominium building was constructed, and another from fifty years later when the structure was overhauled by the City Pride Department. I spread the second set of blueprints for something called a Unity Center in front of me and understand why my mother thought this was important.

  In this version of the plans, the shimmering black-and-silver building my mother died next to has been transformed into what can only be described as a jail.

  Twelve

  Unity Center.

  The name evokes people coming together. But this . . .

  All windows are tinted so no one can see in. The building has been soundproofed so that none of the people held in the eight-foot-by-six-foot cells on the upper floors, or in the large barred-in spaces in the lower levels marked as “transfer area,” would be heard by anyone on the outside. There is also an underground garage. The plans call for a restructuring of the entrance to accommodate the “transition transportation” vehicles.

  A hollow ache grows inside me.

  There are still prisons in Chicago. Crime hasn’t vanished completely. That would be impossible. But the news continuously reports on the historically low number of residents in those jails. So there should be no reason for something like this unless everything Atlas told me about people being taken by the Marshals and not being seen again is real.

  Is this what my mother was looking for in the archives? Could this be what she wanted people to know about and why she was on that sidewalk the night she died? The folder was in the future projects drawer. If the building still exists . . .

  I pull out my phone and dial Atlas.

  “Has anyone heard anything about your father yet?”

  “Meri? I told you I’d come find you later—”

  “If the Marshals took your father, I think I might know where he’s being held.”

  There’s a beat before he asks, “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s a place my mother learned about. I have the archives file and I think it might be why they killed her. I don’t know exactly what the building is used for, but I can go and—”

  “Stay right where you are,” Atlas says. “I can be at your place in twenty minutes.”

  “I’m not at my house,” I admit.

  “I told you to . . .” He takes a loud breath, then quietly asks, “Where are you?”

  “A park.” I scramble up to my knees and peer out over the slide. “Freedom Fields Park.”

  “I’ll find it. Don’t move until I get there.” The phone goes dead before I can reply.

  So I sit and wait, staring at the plans in front of me with my legs pulled tight against my chest, unable to stop myself from imagining all the things my mother must have thought when she found this file. How horrified she must have felt when she realized the job she loved was a lie, and how scared she must have been.

  She had to have known there was a chance the government would learn about the things she was looking into and that if they found out they would be watching Dad and me to see if she shared what she suspected with us.

  If she had only left things alone, she would be alive. She would be like Mrs. Anderson—home with her family. With me.

  Anger burns hot and bright, then flickers
and dies, because I understand why she couldn’t live her life pretending not to know what she had learned. And maybe she loved me enough to not want me to have to live that life, either.

  Was that why she created the paintings?

  So I would follow them, find the Lyceum, and reveal the truth? So I could finish the work she had begun?

  A childish laugh rings like a bell, reminding me where I am. My hands shake as I fold up the blueprints, shove the papers into the folder, and tuck it back under my shirt. Then I swipe away the tears that fell without my being aware of them and wait.

  Finally, my phone dings.

  I’M HERE. WHERE ARE YOU?

  IN THE FORT.

  I start to climb down but my phone dings again.

  BE RIGHT THERE.

  Atlas’s face appears. He looks pissed and sweaty as he pulls himself into the fort, which suddenly feels really cramped. He shrugs off the backpack he’s carrying, sets it to the side, and glares. “I told you to stay inside your house until you saw me again.”

  “Well, I didn’t listen and I’m not sorry. That’s how I found this.” I pull the file out from under my shirt.

  Quickly, I tell him about my trip to visit Mrs. Anderson and how I followed my mom’s footsteps and snuck into the City Pride Department archives. A small spot on Atlas’s temple starts to pulse as I talk, but he doesn’t flip out, which I take as a positive sign. I slide the blueprints out of the folder and hand them to him. “Your dad could be there, right now.”

  Atlas frowns as he studies the page, then looks up at me. “You should have called instead of taking so many unnecessary risks. If you’d been caught at Liberty Tower—”

  “But I wasn’t.”

  “You got lucky, but . . .” He slowly reaches out and takes my hand in his. “If it helps me find my dad, I will never be able to thank you.”

  His strong fingers curl around mine and hold tight. Warmth floods through me. I squeeze his hand back and find that I don’t want to let go.

  “We’ll see if that changes after I check out the building,” he says. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  I drop Atlas’s hand as the meaning of what he said hits me. “Wait,” I say, scrambling to grab the folder from him. “What do you mean you’ll let me know? I’m going with you.”

  “No,” he says, yanking the folder away and shoving it into his bag. “You’ve taken more than enough risks, and if my dad is being held there, just hanging around on that block could be dangerous.” He crouches in the tight space and heads for the ladder. “I’ve got this.”

  That’s what he thinks.

  He starts down the ladder and I head for the slide. When he climbs out of the fort, I’m standing at the bottom waiting for him. “I can go with you, or I can meet you there,” I say firmly. “Take your pick.”

  He shoves his hands into his pockets and sighs. “Have you always been a pain in the ass?”

  “Yes.” My matter-of-fact response seems to take him off guard. “Look,” I say. “I get that this is about your father, but my mother died looking for this information. You said the two of them were working together. I’d say whether you like it or not we’re going to have to do the same.”

  He shakes his head, paces away from me, then turns back. “Okay, here’s the deal. You agree to do what I tell you.” He cuts me off when I start to object. “Meri, you’re smart and more than capable, but you’re also new to this. I’ve lived with it my entire life. If I tell you to do something, you have to do it. There won’t be time to play twenty questions. Okay?”

  “I’ll try.” It’s not exactly what he asked for, but it’s honest. “That’s the best I can do.”

  Atlas shakes his head, but I see a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he agrees, “Fine. We have to get moving. Just remember that you wanted to do this. Do you like to run?”

  “I hate it.”

  Atlas turns and gives me a wide, toothy smile. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. Lock up your bike and we’ll go find my dad.”

  My throat and side ache by the time we go three blocks and stop to wait for the light to change. Atlas, however, has barely broken a sweat. The light turns, and Atlas jogs across the crosswalk with me scrambling to catch up.

  “Do you plan on us running all the way?” I gasp. Because the building is across town and maybe Atlas can make it on foot, but there is no way I’ll be able to walk by then. Maybe that’s his plan to ditch me?

  “Just to the next block.” He glances at his watch and picks up the pace. “Come on, we have to hurry.”

  Atlas mercifully slows down after we cross the next street. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a red-and-orange-colored Chicago Transit Card. “You’re going to need this.”

  “I have my own,” I say, digging into my back pocket for one of the few things I always have with me. I mean, I live in Chicago.

  “Personal cards are never to be used for Steward business. Not unless you want them to track all your movements back to you.”

  I stare at the piece of plastic in my hand. I hadn’t considered that anyone could use it to monitor me. “They couldn’t possibly care where I take the bus or the L. I’m just a normal high school student.”

  “You are definitely not normal. And they’ll care when you’re suddenly going to locations you’ve never visited before. They’ve designed programs to flag that kind of thing. Someone is always watching. Someone is always looking for you. You’re on the train, Meri, and there’s no turning back.” His eyes are fierce. They shift from side to side, scanning everyone as we duck through the wide silver archway doors that I’ve passed through hundreds of times before and enter the L station. “Always be on your guard. You have to remember that you are seeing a world they don’t want you to see. That makes you dangerous.”

  The idea that I could be dangerous is laughable. Only, Atlas isn’t laughing as he runs his card through the gateway. The red light darkens and the one beside it shines green. He passes through the turnstile, then waits for me before heading toward the stairs that lead up to the tracks. “The Marshals are out there to protect the government’s version of the world—crafted by their words and their truths. They’ll destroy anything that contradicts their version. That’s why they went after your mom and my dad. If they realize you’re questioning them, they’ll be after you. So you can’t take any more risks. If they recognize you, you’ll never be safe again and neither will your dad.”

  My head whips around to stare at Atlas. “My father doesn’t know anything.”

  “They’ll never believe he didn’t know what his wife and daughter were doing. They’ll take him. Just like they took my father.”

  My mind clouds gray. I’m here because I wanted answers. I never intended to put my father in danger.

  “You just need to be careful and he’ll be fine.” Atlas gently places his hand on my shoulder. I focus on its steadiness and warmth to help push away the budding panic.

  “How do you live with it?” I ask, and look up into his dark, clear eyes. “Knowing what could happen if you do something wrong?”

  “I’ve lived in the Lyceum my whole life. My friends and family are all used to being hunted. It doesn’t make me any less scared, but in some ways it makes it easier. At least, I thought it did until this week.”

  The L approaches. The line of shiny silver train cars screeches to a stop. I stay close to Atlas’s side as we snake through the exiting passengers and shove our way through the connected doors into the last car.

  Atlas wedges himself between a guy in a blue-and-white-striped jersey and another in a T-shirt, who are busy chatting with their friends.

  The doors swish closed. We lurch forward, and I grab the back of one of the seats as the train picks up speed. I glance at Atlas, who is slowly looking around the car—no longer interested in talking. He’s surrounded by people, but to anyone who looked closely, it would seem that he’s alone.

  His jaw is clenched. His weight is bala
nced on the front of his feet, making him ready to bolt at any moment. And his eyes—they are dark and intense and searching as they shift from person to person until they finally fall on me. “Next stop.”

  I follow him onto the platform and onto the next train. This one isn’t as crowded, but Atlas stops me when I start to slide into one of the orange plastic train seats.

  I stay standing and grab one of the silver poles as Atlas leans toward me and quietly says, “When you sit, you relax. When you relax, you let down your guard. Keep standing. Keep watching. Be prepared to take action.”

  “Watching for what?” I ask, looking around the train at the people riding with us.

  “People watching you.” He points to one of the advertising posters that run along the top of both sides of the car, then nods to a man at the end of the train who, every couple of seconds, looks up from his phone and studies the remaining passengers.

  SEE SOMETHING UNUSUAL? WE WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT. HELP KEEP CHICAGO STRONG AND SAFE.

  “When we get off at the next stop, follow my lead. We’re going to look for anything that will confirm what’s in that file. If we do, we’ll figure out our next steps from there.”

  Atlas reaches for my hand, and I take his in mine as we exit the train and walk slowly toward the block that I see every night in my dreams. I try to move faster, but Atlas tugs me back. “People see what they want to see as long as you don’t give them any reason to think different. If we look like we’re out on a date, people will assume that’s the case. No one will think we’re searching for things that we’re not supposed to know about.”

  I force myself to smile and give one-word answers to the inane questions Atlas asks to make it look like we’re a couple. He isn’t buying my acting skills. “If this is how you think a date is supposed to go, Meri, I can see why you’re on your own.”

  “Some of us have more important things to think about,” I shoot back. “You should understand that.”

  “I do, but that doesn’t mean I don’t date.” I can feel his eyes on me, so I force myself to keep looking toward the intersection ahead. “Should I take your silence to mean you’re jealous?”