Adrian cast a glance at the counselor. She looked worried, like she was ready to step in and divert Winston’s attention to more cheerful subjects at the first sign of trouble. Clearing her throat, she took a subtle step forward. “What did Hettie do to you, Mr. Pratt?”
Winston looked up, startled, as if he’d forgotten they were there. Then his lip curled in annoyance. “Hettie is a puppet,” he said, shaking the doll so that the wooden head bobbed back and forth. “It can’t do anything it isn’t made to do.”
The counselor blinked. “Yes,” she said slowly, “but you said—”
“It’s what he symbolizes,” Winston said. His indifference vanished, and suddenly, his face was carved with emotion. His brow creased, his eyes burned. His breaths turned ragged. “It’s what he did!” With a scream, he pulled back his arm and threw the puppet. It clacked hollowly against the wall and fell to the floor, its limbs splayed at odd angles.
Adrian watched, frozen, and wondered distantly if he should come back in an hour or two.
But then Winston took in a long breath and giggled, almost sheepish. “I didn’t mean to do that.” He looked at Adrian. “Could you hand him back to me, pretty please?”
When the counselor didn’t object, Adrian scooped the doll from the floor. Winston snatched it from his hand and spent another moment trying to scratch off the teardrop with his thumbnail, before huffing with irritation and tucking Hettie against his side.
He met Adrian’s eyes again and shrugged, a little sadly. “I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on poor Hettie,” he said, petting the doll’s fluffy orange hair. “It really isn’t his fault.”
Adrian forced a smile, not sure how else to respond. He waited a full ten seconds before lifting his eyebrows. “So?”
“So?” said Winston.
His fist started to tighten and Adrian shoved it into his pocket in an attempt to make it less obvious. “We had a deal. The puppet, in exchange for information. You promised to tell me who killed my mother.”
Winston clicked his tongue. “No, no. I promised to tell you something you would want to know.”
Adrian’s hand squeezed tighter, until he could feel his nails digging into his palm. He’d known better than to trust an Anarchist. He’d known.
He was seconds away from leaping forward and snatching the puppet away from the villain when Winston started to smile. Teasing and sly.
“And I will tell you something you want to know. More than you realize.”
Adrian held his breath.
“You told me that you watched the Detonator kill Nightmare,” said Winston. “That you were there. But … I’m afraid, young Master Everhart, you were mistaken.” His eyes twinkled. “Our precious little Nightmare is very much alive.”
*
HE WENT TO THE Council’s offices first, but only Blacklight was available. Adrian supposed he could have told him, as he was as high-ranking as any of the others. But no—he needed to talk to his dads first. They knew the whole story of his search for Nightmare. They knew why it was so important to him.
But according to Prism, Captain Chromium and the Dread Warden were out to dinner with the commissioner of Gatlon City food security and they were not expected back in the office until tomorrow. Though Adrian pressed, she refused to tell him where they had gone—it would not be appropriate to divulge that information, even to him, she said, forcefully apologetic.
So he headed home, teeth grinding the whole way.
Winston Pratt had refused to say more, no matter how Adrian cajoled, or how many of the Anarchists’ belongings he offered as bribes, to the growing annoyance of his counselor. Pratt was not swayed. He had given the information he intended to give, and his lips were now sealed. He’d even made a zipper motion across them to prove his point.
It was so infuriating. To know that he had more information, but was refusing to share it. Adrian definitely would have smacked Pratt on the side of the head a few times if he’d thought the counselor would allow it.
Nightmare was alive.
He had known. Somehow, he had known. She hadn’t been killed by that explosion. She’d sneaked away while they were distracted by the bombs going off in the park. She was still at large.
And there was a chance that he could find her. There was a chance he could find out her connection to his mother’s murderer.
He had been pacing inside the dining room for nearly two hours when the front door finally opened and Hugh’s boisterous laugh echoed through the house. Adrian charged into the foyer. Both of his dads were grinning, but the looks faded when their eyes landed on him.
“Nightmare is alive,” he blurted. “Winston Pratt confirmed it. She wasn’t killed by the Detonator. She’s still out there!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Hugh, holding up his hands. “Slow down.”
Adrian paused to take a deep breath. His dads shrugged out of their jackets as he started again. “When I spoke to Winston Pratt the other day, we made a deal. If I brought him this puppet of his, he would answer one of my questions.”
“Yes, we know,” said Simon. “We had to approve the incentive.”
“Right,” said Adrian. “Well, I got the puppet and today he told me that Nightmare isn’t dead. She tricked us!”
They both stared at him, wool jackets draped over their arms.
“And,” Simon started, “how, exactly, does he know that?”
Adrian rubbed a hand over his hair. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t say anything else, but he seemed certain.”
“He’s been in jail for months,” said Hugh, “with no outside contact. He couldn’t possibly know whether or not Nightmare is alive.”
“I’m sorry, Adrian, but Hugh’s right. He’s just trying to distract you—to distract us. Classic villain technique. Get us looking for one thing over here, while they make plans to attack us over there. We need to stay focused on finding Hawthorn and the remaining Anarchists, not chasing after a ghost.”
“No, but…” Adrian trailed off. His eyes darted between them, and he felt the sudden sting of pity. He rocked back on his heels. He didn’t want to believe them, but he couldn’t explain why he was convinced that Winston Pratt was telling the truth.
Because you want it to be the truth, a voice whispered. His own annoying subconscious.
If it wasn’t true, then the trail to find his mother’s killer was cold again, nothing more than a vague hope that maybe, maybe, one of the other Anarchists might know something. If they were ever found again.
And it would mean that he’d been fooled by a lousy villain. He’d gone to the tunnels, he’d searched through the artifacts warehouse. Could it have been a staged mission, with no prize to gain at all?
“I’m sorry,” Hugh started, but Adrian cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“Don’t be. I … I probably should have thought of all that before I let him get to me. I just…”
“You wanted it to be true,” Hugh said. “We get it.”
“Yeah, well—” Adrian cleared his throat. “How was your dinner?”
Hugh thumped Adrian on the back as he headed for the staircase. “Long.”