Chapter Thirteen — The Cost of Knowing
The first thing that changed was how quiet people became around us.
Not the loud, dramatic silence — the subtle kind. Conversations cutting off mid-sentence. Phones slipping back into pockets. Laughter turning thin and careful.
It felt like we'd crossed an invisible line.
River noticed it too.
"Congrats," he said under his breath as we walked through the courtyard. "We're officially a liability."
"Do liabilities get social isolation as a bonus?" I asked.
"Only the premium ones."
I smiled, then stopped when I realized how hard it felt to keep it there.
---
By lunchtime, administration called me in.
Not River. Just me.
The counselor's office smelled like fake lavender and desperation. Mrs. Calder sat across from me, hands folded, voice gentle in a way that meant she already knew what she was going to say.
"You've been through a lot," she began.
I nodded. I'd learned that agreeing early made things end faster.
"There are concerns about your emotional wellbeing," she continued. "About your influence on other students."
I blinked. "Influence?"
She smiled thinly. "Grief can be contagious."
That made something cold settle in my chest.
"So what," I said, "you want me quarantined?"
Her eyes flickered. "We want you protected."
I left with a "temporary academic adjustment" and a warning disguised as care.
---
River didn't like it.
"I knew it," he said when I told him. "They're trying to sideline you."
"Maybe they're right," I said quietly.
He stopped walking. "Don't say that."
"I mean it. Look at what happens around me. Fires. Notes. Psych wards. Dead brothers."
"That's not your fault."
"You don't know that."
He looked at me like he wanted to argue — then didn't. That scared me more than if he had.
---
That evening, I went back to Eli's sketchbook again.
I wasn't searching for Seraph or codes this time.
I was looking for him.
I found a page near the back.
If you're reading this and I'm gone, I need you to understand something.
I didn't start this to be brave.
I started it because I was scared.
Underneath, in messy handwriting:
They don't need everyone to comply. They only need enough people to stay quiet.
I closed the book.
The buzzing in my ears came back.
---
Number Ten surfaced the next day.
Her name was Mara Kline — junior, honor student, never in trouble. The kind of girl teachers loved because she made their jobs easier.
She cornered me near the science wing, eyes darting.
"I didn't know," she said before I could speak. "I swear."
"Know what?" I asked.
Her face crumpled. "That it would hurt him."
My stomach dropped. "Mara…"
"They told me it was just data collection," she whispered. "Surveys, behavioral tracking. They said Eli was exaggerating. Paranoid."
"Who's they?"
She shook her head violently. "I can't say it. Not out loud."
"Why?"
"Because I still want to graduate."
That answer landed heavier than any threat.
---
She handed me something small — a flash drive.
"I copied what I could," she said. "Before I realized what it was."
"What is it?"
"Proof," she said softly. "Or a warning. I don't know anymore."
Then she walked away.
Just like that.
---
River and I watched the file load later that night.
Most of it was boring. Spreadsheets. Graphs. Psychological metrics.
Until one tab froze us both.
SUBJECT STATUS: ACTIVE
MEMORY SUPPRESSION: STABLE
EMOTIONAL VARIANCE: ACCEPTABLE
My name was on the screen.
River's too.
"I don't like this," he said quietly.
"Me neither."
The buzzing in my ears grew louder.
---
We shut the laptop without finishing.
Not because we were afraid.
Because something about reading further felt… dangerous. Like leaning too far over a ledge when you weren't sure the ground beneath you was real.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling.
Trying to remember a childhood that felt solid.
Trying to tell if the things I loved were chosen — or planted.
And for the first time, I wondered something terrifying:
If they gave us back our memories…
Would we even want them?