Free The Archived by Victoria Schwab Page B

paralyzed by fear, and I get a glimpse of the apartment behind her.
    Every inch is covered with antiques. My first thought is, Why would anyone have so much stuff?
    “You like old things,” I say.
    “Oh, yes,” she says, straightening. “I’m a collector.” Jezzie is now tucked under
     her arm like a clutch purse. “A bit of an artifact historian,” she says. “And what
     about you, Mackenzie—do you like old things?”
    Like is the wrong word. They’re useful , since they’re more likely to have memories than new things.
    “I like the Coronado,” I say. “That counts as an old thing, right?”
    “Indeed. A wonderful old place. Been around more than a century, if you can believe
     it. Full of history, the Coronado.”
    “You must know all about it, then.”
    Ms. Angelli fidgets. “Ah, a place like this, no one can know everything. Bits and
     pieces, really, rumors and tales…” She trails off.
    “Really?” I brighten. “Anything unusual?” And then, worried my enthusiasm is a little
     too strong, I add, “My friend is convinced a place like this has to have a few ghosts,
     skeletons, secrets.”
    Ms. Angelli frowns and sets Jezzie back in the apartment, and locks the door.
    “I’m sorry,” she says abruptly. “You caught me on my way out. I’ve got an appraisal
     in the city.”
    “Oh,” I fumble. “Well, maybe we could talk more, some other time?”
    “Some other time,” she echoes, setting off down the hall at a surprising pace.
    I watch her go. She clearly knows something . It never really occurred to me that someone would know and not want to share. Maybe
     I should stick to reading walls. At least they can’t refuse to answer.
    My footsteps echo on the concrete stairs as I ascend to the fifth floor, where not
     a single person appears to be home. I leave a trail of muffins in my wake. Is this
     place empty? Or just unfriendly? I’m already reaching for the stairwell door at the
     other end of the hall when it swings open abruptly and I run straight into a body.
     I stumble back, steadying myself against the wall, but I’m not fast enough to save
     the muffins.
    I cringe and wait for the sound of the basket tumbling, but it never comes. When I
     look up, a guy is standing there, the basket safely cradled in his arms. Spiked hair
     and a slanted smile. My pulse skips.
    The third-floor lurker from last night.
    “Sorry about that,” he says, passing me the basket. “No harm, no foul?”
    “Yeah,” I say, straightening. “Sure.”
    He holds out his hand. “Wesley Ayers,” he says, waiting for me to shake.
    I’d rather not, but I don’t want to be rude. The basket’s in my right hand, so I hold
     out my left awkwardly. When he takes it, the sounds rattle in my ears, through my
     head, deafening. Wesley is made like a rock band, drums and bass and interludes of
     breaking glass. I try to block out the roar, to push back, but that only makes it
     worse. And then, instead of shaking my hand, he gives a theatrical bow and brushes
     his lips against my knuckles, and I can’t breathe. Not in a pleasant, butterflies-and-crushes
     way. I literally cannot breathe around the shattering sound and the bricklike beat.
     My cheeks flush hot, and the frown must have made its way onto my face, because he
     laughs, misreading my discomfort, and lets go, taking all the noise and pressure with
     him.
    “What?” he says. “That’s custom, you know. Right to right, handshake. Left to right,
     kiss. I thought it was an invitation.”
    “No,” I say curtly. “Not exactly.” The world is quiet again, but I’m still thrown
     off and having trouble hiding it. I shuffle past him toward the stairs, but he turns
     to face me, his back to the hall.
    “Ms. Angelli, in Four D,” he continues. “She always expects a kiss. It’s hard with
     all the rings she wears.” He holds up his left hand, wiggles his fingers. He’s got
     a few of his own.
    “Wes!” calls a young voice from an open doorway