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“What are you doing up?”

Hamilton stood in the kitchen doorway, a bemused expression on his face. He wasn’t in his uniform; instead, he wore loose pants and a t-shirt with colourful socks. Somehow, the image surfaced another twinge of guilt.

I pretended to be startled at his appearance, jumping and placing a hand over my heart. “Had a nightmare. Decided hot cocoa was the cure.”

His lips curved upward. “Sounds like a pretty good cure to me. I could wake one of the staff, if you want.”

I waved him off. “I can make hot cocoa perfectly well on my own.” I stirred the pot casually, then asked, “What are you doing up?”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. I was watching the cameras when I heard you in here.”

“Anything interesting?” I asked, as dispassionately as possible.

He chuckled. “Nope. Never is. Silent as the grave.”

I took the saucepan off the heat. “You should join me, Andrew. You work too hard.”

The casual, friendly use of his first name was what did it. Warmth came into his eyes and another pang of guilt hit me, because if there was one other thing I’d observed about Hamilton since I’d been here, it was that he was deeply lonely. He’d dedicated his adult life to caring for his sister and his niece, and the only others he’d been remotely close to were his squad. Now, he was separated from them, too, for the sake of guarding me. I’d picked it up from bits of conversation here and there, which wasn’t difficult because it was obvious the man just wanted someone to talk to.

He’s a decent person. He’s just on the wrong team.

Hamilton sat down at the small kitchen table as I poured out two mugs of cocoa. I never usually ate meals in here because the staff insisted on serving me in the dining room, as if I were a guest instead of a prisoner. For all they knew, I supposed I was.

When I handed him his mug, he immediately sipped on it without reservation, which didn’t help my conscience. He trusted me on a basic level, and even if he was part of the reason I was here, I couldn’t find it in me to dislike him. He represented one of the many ordinary people who, when the right pressure was applied, could participate in terrible things. I’d known many people like that in my life.

We chatted idly for a few minutes as I tried to push down the unease that threatened to overwhelm me. I pretended to drink my cocoa, keeping my lips firmly closed. Hamilton had drained about half his cup before he started to feel its effects.

“Whoa,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Starting to feel tired after all. All these late nights are hitting me, I guess.”

“No doubt,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral. “I’m feeling the same, so maybe I’ll head back up to bed.”

“Alright. Night, Claire.”

Butterflies in my stomach, I carried my still-full mug of cocoa back up to my suite, dumped it down the bathroom sink, and stripped off my robe to reveal the black pants and shirt I’d been wearing underneath. I put on the most practical shoes in my closet: the sole pair of sneakers in a sea of formal footwear. Then I donned a hooded jacket, which I pulled up to hide my hair, along with a makeshift mask I’d make out of the fabric I ripped off a skirt. Looking at myself in the mirror, I looked like a caricature of a cat burglar. It was ridiculous, but necessary to hide my identity on the cameras outside the house.

Then I grabbed the last thing I would need: a small satchel that held the flash drive that I’d stolen from the Mayor’s study because all my purchases were being tracked. I waited thirty minutes, then crept downstairs and along the dark corridor that led to the security room. I could hear Andrew’s snores from down the hall. His door opened silently, and the glow of the camera monitors illuminated his fast-asleep face. His empty cocoa mug was sitting on the security desk, right next to his Personal Identification Device.

I picked up the PID and spared Hamilton a backward glance, regretting what I’d done. I’d given him a triple dose of what’d been recommended to me. I hoped it wouldn’t do any lasting damage, but it was hard to be sure. All I knew was that I needed him out cold.

I concealed the PID in my bag, then headed back up to the master suite. There’d be security footage of me doing everything I’d just done, but I’d have to try to delete it later before Hamilton woke up. I was hoping I’d only be gone a couple hours at most, but it was hard to say how difficult it’d be to find what I was looking for.

For now, I exited the way John usually entered: via the balcony. Climbing down the trellis was hard. The thick wood scraped my hands and gave me splinters, and I lost my footing near the bottom and ended up tumbling onto the grass. Disgruntled, I got to my feet and eyed the fence around the yard.

How did John make this look so easy?

As I’d hoped, the entrance to the Pyramid was deserted again due to the late hour. Mask on, hands trembling, I lifted the PID barcode to the scanner, the way I’d seen Hamilton do. It beeped, and the disembodied female voice said, Biometric verification required. Damn. Panic made my palms slick, but I tried scanning the barcode again, and this time, the voice said, Override biometric verification? The computer terminal at the reception desk lit up, and a yes or no dialogue box appeared.

I frowned. I’d never seen that happen before. In any case, when I navigated to the yes button, the voice prompted me to scan again. This time, I heard the clunk of the electronic lock and breathed a sigh of relief, though it was far from the hardest part of my task.

I exited the lobby and got onto the elevator. Seeing the button for Military Archives light up felt surreal, but a strange mix of fear and excitement kept me grounded. Answers were so close. I could feel it.

The elevator doors opened onto a mostly dark floor. There was only a small foyer that was accessible to the public; the corridor beyond was barred by a heavy gate. It almost looked like a cage, which was fitting. On the wall beside it, another scanner waited, with a sign above warning that Major was the lowest rank that could access the archives without special permission. I breathed a sigh of relief, since that was something I’d never even considered—but it confirmed my suspicion that important information was hidden here, inaccessible to the majority of the populace.

I held the PID up to the scanner to verify military rank and credentials. It beeped, the lock clicked, and when I tried the gate, it swung open. Heart pounding in my ears, I slowly walked down the hall. It opened onto a large atrium, which was full of computer terminals, similar to the library. An adjoining room had row after row of storage lockers, and the sign over the door read Evidence Storage. It was a reminder that the military also functioned a police force in the compounds.

I sat down at one of the computers and, after entering Hamilton’s credentials again, was brought to a navigation page. At the top, there were links that said things like Patrol Reports and Incident Records, but nothing that looked especially relevant to me. No doubt that much of the documentation here was as Hamilton had claimed: perfunctory, routine, and boring.

At the bottom of the page, however, there was a search bar with options to search only specific archives. There was a long list of different archive libraries, and I grew frustrated trying to choose one. Ultimately, I hit search all and hoped for the best as I typed in my father’s name.