"He’s gone,” I say.
“Check his desk,” Tot says.
I go cubicle to cubicle, passing my own in our office on the fourth floor, but I already know the answer.
When we first got here, I saw the metal wipe-off board and the little magnet heads with our pictures on them. There were two people in the IN column. Everyone else is OUT. Including the one archivist we came here to see: Dallas.
“No answer on his cell. Maybe he’s downstairs,” Tot says. “Or in the stacks.”
“He’s not,” I say, heading back to the magnets in front. “You know how he is-he doesn’t check out until the moment he’s leaving. God forbid we shouldn’t know that he’s always working and-Hold on. Where’s Clementine?”
Tot looks over his shoulder. The door that leads out to the hallway is still open.
“Clemmi?” I call out, craning my neck outside.
She’s sitting down, cross-legged on the tiles. “Sorry, I’m just-It’s been a long day.”
“Y’think? Usually, when I meet my long-lost father, and get nabbed by Security, and find secret writings that may lead me to a murder, I’m way peppier than that.”
Forcing a smile, she reaches up and grips the doorframe to help her stand. But as she climbs to her feet, her face-it’s not just white anymore. It’s green.
“You’re really not okay, are you?”
“Will you stop? I’m fine,” she insists, forcing another smile. But as she tucks a few stray strands of black hair behind her ear, I see the slight shake in her hand. I’ve had twenty years to romanticize Clementine’s strength. It’s the worst part of seeing old friends: when your rose-colored memories become undone by reality.
“We should get you home,” I say, quickly realizing that, in all my excitement to see her, I have no idea where she lives. “Where in Virginia are you going? Is it far?”
“I can take the Metro.”
“I’m sure you can. But where’re you going?”
“By Winchester. Not far from Shenandoah University.”
I look at Tot, who’s already shaking his head. That’s far. Real far. “You sure the Metro goes out there?” I ask.
“Metro, then commuter bus. Will you relax? I do it all the time.”
I again look at Tot. He again shakes his head.
“Don’t ask me to drive her,” Tot says.
“I’m not asking you to drive her.”
“And don’t ask me for my car,” he warns.
I don’t say a word. Clementine’s face is green; her hand still has the shakes. Tot may not like her. And he may not like how overprotective she’s being. But even he can see it. She’s not making it home by herself.
“I’m fine,” she promises.
“Beecher…” Tot warns.
“It’ll be good. You’ll see.”
“No. I won’t see,” Tot says. “I’m tired and I’m cranky, and thanks to your dictionary I got nothing done today. The last thing I need is a two-hour tour of Virginia. You take her home, you come back and pick me up.”
“Right. Yes. You got it.”
Within six minutes and nineteen seconds, Clementine and I are in the powder blue Mustang, pulling out of the Archives garage and plowing into the evening traffic.
I know Tot’s worried. He’s always worried. But when I think of what we’ve been through today…
How could it possibly get worse?