Page 90 of Shades of Silver City

“Yes—no.” He takes a few hesitant steps toward me. I stay rooted in place, to make it clear I’m not afraid of him. “Not at first. I found out shortly after we met.”

“You knew my dad?”

“No. I knew of your dad.” He glances over his shoulder, toward the street, then back to me. “Can we please go inside and talk? I wanted to tell you…but it’s not safe out here.”

“Why do you have his journal?” I ask, my voice breaking.

“Let’s go inside.”

“No!” I find my voice this time, saying louder, “Tell me why, Archer.”

“Because your dad is the one who created dreamdust.”

If I thought my heart had been ripped in half before, it’s absolutely obliterated by this damning statement. I almost lose my grip on the journal, but then I squeeze it tighter, until my fingers ache enough to distract me from the emotional pain.

“No he didn’t,” I whisper. “Why would you say that?”

“Tasia…” Archer steps toward me. “Please listen to me.” When I hear how sincere, how sorrowful his expression is, the truth sinks in. “He was the original designer of the drug.”

“Is that why he was killed?” My mind races with possibilities and explanations. No. It doesn’t make sense. “He worked for the city. The city funded his studies…”

“I don’t have answers for his—”

“Then why do you have this?” I wave the journal in Archer’s face.

“Because I wanted to find a cure, Tasia. My sister was hooked. No one had answers. I couldn’t fix it—even with my abilities.” Turning away, he runs a hand over his face and walks in a small circle. “I thought if I found who created the drug, I could find an antidote.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Archer stops pacing. He faces me. He throws his hands up in defeat.

“I found more questions than answers.”

“That’s why you’re so upset about the drug being back…” Pieces start to come together, filling the gaps in my mind.

“We thought we got rid of it all. Claude was—he was unable to make more. I had his only journals.”

“Except one,” I add, gesturing toward the car where my dad’s other journal—the one with information about my magic—sits.

Archer goes silent, glancing away and scratching the back of his neck—something he does when he’s nervous or uncomfortable, I’ve noticed.

“Wait,” I say, my rage building. “Is this why you got close to me? To take the journal? Search for answers?”

“No—” He groans. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” After a few seconds of silence, he sighs. “I’m the one who brought that journal to you after I found it.” He says it so quietly that I almost convince myself he didn’t say it all.

The journal did show up randomly one day at my foster home—two years after my parents’ deaths. I assumed my dad had left it for me but that I’d somehow overlooked it in my grief. I thought it was his way of explaining everything, making it easier for me to live with what he’d done to me. I was young, so I never questioned how or why. I even speculated that it might’ve appeared by magic, like what he’d infused me with.

“It showed up two years after his death,” I say stupidly. I was ten.

“I was sixteen,” he says. “Young and reckless. I broke into his lab—stole his work. His research didn’t help me find an antidote to the dust. I still lost my sister that year.”

The air drains from my lungs as I process this new information. “I’m sorry, Archer.” A few beats pass. “Why did you bring that journal to me? Specifically?” I whisper.

“Because…the first page said: ‘To my Fantastic Fantasia—’”

“‘—everything begins with a…dream,’” I finish. The air whooshes out of my lungs as that dedication takes on new meaning.

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