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wanted.
    The trouble is, I can’t make her want it. Hearts are not as easy to control as the multiverse, and Del’s heart has gone out of her, to a place I can’t reach. The knowledge is as bitter as the cold tea before me.
    â€œThey’re using you,” she says softly. “They don’t trust you. This is how they keep an eye on you. On both of us.”
    â€œThat’s not true,” I protest, even though I wondered the same thing only hours ago.
    She smiles, weary and sympathetic.
    Pity from someone who’s hit rock bottom is disconcerting. Like you’re about to tip over the edge, and you don’t even realize it.
    The sound of my parents pulling into the driveway is unmistakable, since the van’s muffler is nearly shot. It’s not like we’re poor—CCM pays us, and pays us well—but my parents can’t be bothered with things like routine car maintenance or repainting the house. They keep their interactions with Originals to a minimum. Their focus is entirely on the multiverse, and each other, and us, in precisely that order.
    By the time the back door opens, Del has vanished upstairs, the sound of her footsteps on the treads the only sign she was ever here.
    Mom and Dad, arms laden with grocery bags, don’t notice the array of files littering the table. I scoop them into my tote bag before they can take a closer look.
    Word of my special project will get out, and soon. But the Consort’s cover story won’t hold up to my parents’ scrutiny, and I can’t bear for my new assignment to be the topic of conversation at family dinner. Too many questions I can’t answer, too many ghosts stirred up. Keeping secrets has always been Del’s department, but I’m starting to see the appeal.
    For a little while, secrets let you think you’re in control.

CHAPTER FIVE
    T he next morning, Del manages to pull off another sick day.
    â€œI have a cough,” she rasps, when I go upstairs to yell at her.
    I open her nightstand. “You have a bottle of cinnamon and a teaspoon. You could collapse a lung, you know.”
    â€œThen I should stay home and take it easy.” She does cough, pitifully, but it serves her right.
    â€œI can’t believe Mom and Dad buy this.”
    She sips at the tea my dad brought up earlier. “Guilty conscience and a busy day,” she says with a hint of the old Del. “Works every time.”
    I shake my head and leave her to her deception. In a way, it’s progress.
    At CCM, I head straight to my new office.
    There’s a guy at the desk opposite mine. Chair tilted back, well-worn combat boots propped on the surface, playing some sort of game on his phone.
    â€œCan I help you?” I ask, my voice frosty.
    He scrambles up and gives me a wave. “Hey there, partner.”
    The guy is approximately my age and several inches shorter. He’s wearing cargo pants and a loose black T-shirt, and his overeager grin gives the impression of a very affable stamp collector. “You’re my partner?”
    He looks like he’s spent most of his time behind a desk, not working Enforcement. His shoulders are rounded and, if I’m being honest, he has one of those forgettable faces—if I walked into a room of sandy-haired, weak-chinned guys, I wouldn’t be able to pick him out.
    â€œYep. And you’re Addison Sullivan. Garnett Thompson,” he adds with a slight drawl. “Pleasure to meet you.”
    â€œWhere’s Lattimer?” I ask.
    â€œIn a meeting,” Garnett says patiently. “Figured we didn’t need to be so formal.”
    He’s right, I suppose. “When did you get here?” I ask.
    â€œCouple of hours ago. I’ve been busy getting the lay of the land.”
    â€œYou’re Enforcement?” Most of their apprentices are checking IDs or running compliance checks on underage Walkers. His name is unfamiliar, too. “You’re