Years later, I'd be able to look back and still remember the rising fear I felt as I ran through the winding halls of DEPRAC. It wasn't the choking kind that I'd felt through Matthew, but more of a slow, simmering panic that threatened to turn all my bones into mush. I had a made a promise to Lockwood.

And I had just broken it.

No, more than that: I had done the equivalent of tearing my promise into a bajillion scrumpled pieces and then feeding them to George's dirty underwear.

If he found out . . . Lockwood rarely ever got angry, but when he did, it wasn't something that you wanted to stick around and see. Most certainly, you didn't want to be the recipient of his fury.

Worse than that . . . I was his friend. We'd had each other's backs for more times than we could count. He, George, and I were just as tight as the bonded family I'd never had. Heck, we lived under the same roof. Because of all that, Lockwood trusted me. I didn't think that I'd be able to bear breaking that trust.

But I just had.

Stupid, stupid, stupid . . . why don't you ever think before you act?

I wanted to bang my head against the wall and curse loudly (and dirtily) enough to raise the dead, but there was no time. I had to get back. Maybe Lockwood and George hadn't realized, and were still poring over the new equipment . . .

I skidded around a group of office workers talking in the hall and burst through an open doorway. The flooring beneath my feet changed into pristine marble, slippery as butter under my worn lace-up boots. My body lurched forward; a gasp flew out of my mouth; I flapped my arms in an ungainly way, grasped uselessly at the air above me, and went spilling down the steps to the main lobby.

The fall knocked all breath out of me. For a moment, I just lay there quietly with my forehead pressed to the marble floor. Then, with a small groan, I raised my head.

Anthony Lockwood looked back at me.

"Hey, Luce," he said calmly. "Where've you been?"

I'm sure my face turned as red as a tomato, because George (who was beside him) snickered loudly.

I sat up (painfully) and rubbed at my aching head. "Oh, you know," I said thickly, my tongue fumbling around each word. "Around. After I delivered the package, I had to go to the loo."

"The loo?" The counter-boy from before was passing by. He stopped and pointed in the opposite direction. "It's right over there, miss."

I resisted the urge to kick him through the glass door. "Right," I said through gritted teeth. "Great."

The three of us watched him continue on his way; when he was a satisfactory distance away, Lockwood and George zoomed back in on me. I stared back at them stonily.

"You didn't come back for a long while," Lockwood told me quietly. His face was cold and unreadable. "We came looking for you. We were worried."

Another lie was ready to burst off my tongue, but then I took another look at Lockwood's face. The words died in my mouth; I glanced away. "You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. And I was just looking for the bathroom," I added in a harsh undertone.

"Funny, that," George said lightly. His normally dull eyes pierced me in a way that suggested he found it anything but funny. "I remember you used the toilet right before we left the house."

"What are you, a stalker?" I snapped. We glared at each other.

Lockwood straightened up and shook his head. "Okay, Luce. Whatever you say. But let's go; I think it's about to rain, and we need to get the equipment back home."

Their boxes were stacked in a jumble by the front entrance. I picked one up in my arms and followed George out the door, stewing angrily inside even though I knew I had no right to. I was the one, after all, that had broken a promise.

Lockwood soon passed George and I with his long, even strides, and we settled into a pace with him ahead of us, long coat flapping in the wind. I let my gaze fall on the sidewalk. We walked for a while down the street with not a sound between us except for the tap of our feet on the pavement. I felt antsy, restless; I wanted to throw the boxes to the ground and run all the way home, if only I could escape the silent tension between us three.

George couched lightly. I darted a glance at him.

"You Touched the bear again, didn't you?" George kept his beady gaze fixed on some point in the distance.

I struggled to keep my face even. "George, I—"

"Didn't you?"

A wash of shame swept over me so strong that I felt almost sick. I swallowed hard, forced some words out of my mouth. "I . . . George . . ."

We looked at each other. I broke down.

"Yeah," I said lowly. "I did. I had to."

He grunted and shifted the boxes in his arms.

"How'd you know?"

"You always have this peaky look after you've Touched something strong. Like you just vomited. I don't think Lockwood noticed . . . but I don't think he bought your bathroom story, either."

"You are a stalker," I marveled, stepping to the side to avoid a stroller. George shrugged his shoulders, still as impassive as ever.

"I'm just observant," he said with a roll of the eyes. "You'd notice more things if you'd just look sometimes."

"Notice things? Like what?" I demanded, leaning forward so I could look George in the eye. He raised a single eyebrow at me.

"See? Just like that. You need to be more observant," the boy said with relish. He grinned maliciously at me.

Some time later, we arrived back home and bundled inside. I put my boxes on the kitchen table, feeling wearier than before. As soon as we'd walked inside, Lockwood had disappeared somewhere. So had George. I was left to unpack the boxes and categorize the items, feeling a numbness creep through me as I worked—but at the same time, a sharp thrill still simmered in my stomach.

I knew exactly who had murdered Matthew Callahan.

I cut through the top of one box with a kitchen knife, thinking hard as I worked. How could I prove that what I knew was real? And could I do it alone? After all, George and Lockwood had already made it clear that they wanted nothing more to do with the Callahan case . . .

All of a sudden, I felt quite a bit lonely in the kitchen. I ripped through another box and pulled out the bags of iron inside, weighing them briefly in my palm.

"There's silver dust mixed in those," said a voice from the doorway.

I set the iron back down on the table and reached for the next box. "Hey, Lockwood."

He came to the table and sat down in a chair, reached for one of the boxes. "George told me what you did."

So that's what they'd been up to.

I punched the knife into another box, briefly imagining that it was George in front of me. Lockwood made a small sound in his throat; I glanced at him.

"There's good equipment inside," he protested. "Be careful with it."

"I am." I reached inside the box and tugged out a few mag-flares. "And what do you think?"

"Well, they're designed by Fittes, so they're obviously going to be well-made . . . I'm not sure about the blast size, though—usually in our cases, we don't need a mag-flare quite so powerful—"

"I meant what do you think about what George told you." I paused in my work, stilled myself for his response.

Lockwood took his time slicing through the top of a box before he responded. "I'm not exactly sure what to think. I trust you, Lucy," he told me. "I always will. And I'm not expecting you to always listen to what I say, or unfailingly follow my orders, or anything like that—but from now on, a promise is a promise, okay?"

"Right," I said softly. "I'm sorry."

"I get it. You did what you felt was right." A warm smile bloomed suddenly on Lockwood's face. "That's how it should always be."

I grinned back in relief.

That's how it should always be.