The Inner Circle Read Online Free PDF Page A

squat man coming around the far corner of the row. A light pops on above him as he heads our way. Outfitted in full black body armor and gripping a polished matching black rifle, he studies my ID, then looks at the red Visitor badge clipped to Clementine’s shirt.
    “Thanks,” he calls out with a nod.
    I almost forgot what day it was. When the President comes, so does the…
    “Secret Service,” Clementine whispers. She cocks a thin, excited eyebrow, tossing me the kind of devilish grin that makes me feel exactly how long I haven’t felt this way.
    But the truly sad part is just how wonderful the rush of insecurity feels—like rediscovering an old muscle you hadn’t used since childhood. I’ve been emailing back and forth with Clementine for over two months now. But it’s amazing how seeing your very first kiss can make you feel fourteen years old again. And what’s more amazing is that until she showed up, I didn’t even know I missed it.
    When most people see an armed Secret Service agent, they pause a moment. Clementine picks up speed, heading to the end of the row and peeking around the corner to see where he’s going. Forever fearless.
    “So these guys protect the documents?” she asks as I catch up to her, leading her out of the stacks.
    “Nah, they don’t care about documents. They’re just scouting in advance for him .”
    This is Washington, D.C. There’s only one him .
    The President of the United States.
    “Wait… Wallace is here ?” Clementine asks. “Can I meet him?”
    “Oh for sure,” I say, laughing. “We’re like BFFs and textbuddies and… he totally cares about what one of his dozens of archivists thinks. In fact, I think his Valentine’s card list goes: his wife, his kids, his chief of staff… then me.”
    She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile—she just stares at me with deep confidence in her ginger brown eyes. “I think one day, he will care about you,” she says.
    I freeze, feeling a blush spread across my face.
    Across from me, Clementine pulls up the sleeve of her black sweater, and I notice a splotch of light scars across the outside of her elbow. They’re not red or new—they’re pale and whiter than her skin, which means they’ve been there a long time. But the way they zigzag out in every direction… whatever carved into her skin like that caused her real pain.
    “Most people stare at my boobs,” she says with a laugh, catching my gaze.
    “I-I didn’t mean—”
    “Oh jeez—I’m sorry—I embarrassed you, didn’t I?” she asks.
    “No. Nonono. No.”
    She laughs again. “You know you’re a horrible liar?”
    “I know,” I say, still staring at her scars.
    “And you know you’re still staring at my scars?”
    “I know. I can’t stop myself. If we were in a desert instead of in these dusty stacks, I’d bury myself right now.”
    “You really should just go for my boobs,” she says. “At least you get a better view.”
    Instinctively, I look—and then just as quickly stare back at her scars. “It looks like a dog bite.”
    “Motorcycle crash. My fault. My elbow hyperextended and the bone broke through the skin.”
    “Sounds excruciating.”
    “It was ten years ago, Beecher,” she says, confidently shrugging the entire world away as her eyes take hold and don’t let go. She’s staring just at me. “Only the good things matter after ten years.”
    Before I can agree, my phone vibrates in my pocket, loud enough that we both hear the buzz.
    “That them?” Clementine blurts.
    I shake my head. Caller ID says it’s my sister, who lives with my mom back in Wisconsin. But at this time of the day, when the supermarket shifts change, I know who’s really dialing: It’s my mom, making her daily check-up-on-me call, which started the day after she heard about Iris. And while I know my mom never liked Iris, she has too much midwestern kindness in her to ever say it to me. The phone buzzes again.
    I don’t pick up. But by the time I look back at