Dissonance

To Danny, who I would cross worlds for.

And to my girls, who make my world shine.

During the first conversation we ever had, Joanna Volpe said: Write this book. So I did, because she is fierce and brilliant and tireless and never wrong. (All excellent qualities in an agent, not to mention a human being.) I am continually grateful for the opportunity to work with her. I'm also thankful for the amazing team at New Leaf Literary: Kathleen Ortiz, for her foreign rights wizardry; Danielle Barthel, for cheering me on at every turn; and Suzie Townsend, Jaida Temperly, and Pouya Shahbazian, for all-around awesomeness.

Zareen Jaffery's intelligence, clear-sightedness, creativity, and heart brought this book to life, and shaped it into the story I had only dreamed it could be. Working with her—and learning from her—has been an absolute gift. The people at Simon & Schuster BFYR have given
Dissonance
the best home a girl could ask for, especially Justin Chanda, Julia Maguire, Jenica Nasworthy, Brian Luster, Paul Crichton, Katy Hershberger, Siena Koncsol, Alexandra Cooper, and Amy Rosenbaum. Lizzy Bromely's beautiful, breathtaking cover captures Del's story perfectly.

The women of Chicago-North RWA have been a source of inspiration, learning, and support. I'm particularly grateful for Clara Kensie, Lynne Hartzer, Ryann Murphy, and Melonie Johnson—supremely talented, wickedly funny women. I'm equally indebted to Paula Forman, Lisa McKernan, Genevieve O'Keefe, Lexie Craig, and Judy Bergman for their willingness to drag me out of my office when I need it most. Jenn Rush, Susan Dennard, Leigh Bardugo, Sarah J. Maas, and Monica Vavra gave me knowing nods and supportive e-mails at every turn.

I begged Holly McDowell, Thomas Purnell, and Joelle Charbonneau
for assistance on all things musical, which they graciously provided. My genius cousin, Dr. Katie Woodhams, explained genetics using small words and pictures, which was exactly the right speed for me. Lisa Tonkery has provided encouragement, snarky texts, and basketball pointers as only a Hoosier can. KC Solano provided key plot-bouncing services yet again. Kim McCarron, Vanessa Barneveld, Sara Kendall, and Hanna Martine read countless drafts and gave invaluable feedback and encouragement. Loretta Nyhan is wise and kind, a true storyteller and an incredible friend.

Without my beloved Eliza Evans, this book wouldn't exist. I'd also be a much crankier person, with a much shakier grip on pop culture. She is astonishing in the best sense of the word, and I am so thankful for her insight, her humor, and her generous soul.

Thank you to my parents—not only for their love and support, but for teaching me that books were as essential as food or air. In doing so, they gave me the world, a million times. Thanks also to my amazing sister, Kris, who inspires me with her strength and bravery. My entire extended family has cheered me on, but none more so than my aunt, Patricia Layton, who loved romance novels and Christmas and family, and who is dearly, dearly missed.

Every single day, my daughters delight me with their intelligence, their wit, their independence and their boundless hearts. Thank you, my loves, for being excited about my writing, entertaining yourselves during deadlines, and being exquisitely, unequivocally you.

Above all, the biggest thanks go to Danny, for making me laugh and swoon in equal measure, for giving me solid ground and space to dream, for building this life with me. You are my heart and my home, for infinity.

In the beginning was the dark, and the Lord spoke and chose the light, and the world cleaved, and the song of the new world was pleasing to His ears. Worlds begat worlds like the branches of a tree, and each favored branch was touched with His song. He anointed the ears and hands of His most favored children, and granted them freedom to Walk among the branches so they might preserve and magnify His song.

—The Walker Bible, Genesis, Chapter 1, Verses 1–3

The duty of each Walker is to preserve the course and integrity of the Key World, the One True World from which the Multiverse sprang, and to protect it from the blight of Echoes. To be a Walker requires obedience, diligence, and sacrifice. The calling to Walk between worlds is both a gift and a burden, and this textbook will guide you accordingly.

—Authors' Note,

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

I
T SEEMED LIKE
a lousy way to remember someone: two aging strips of wood nailed together in the shape of a cross, stuck into a weed-choked ditch on the side of the road. A name, careful cursive in fading black marker, looped across the middle, and a tattered supermarket bouquet—carnations, daisies, baby's breath—slumped against the base.

It wasn't much, but it would be enough.

More than enough, if you asked me. Which no one did.

The two-lane road on the edge of town wasn't busy, but the curve was surprisingly sharp if you didn't know to look for it, or didn't care because you were young and thought you'd live forever. Backpack over my shoulder, I started into the ditch, tromping over prickler weeds and knee-high grasses. The ground squelched under my feet, but I ignored it, listening for the hum that meant I was close.

My phone rang, and I shoved it deeper in my pocket. I'd gotten the most important message just after lunch.

“Del, it's Dad. I'm sorry to cancel our Walk again, but I've got an emergency meeting with the Consort this afternoon. Your mother says your assignment's due tomorrow, so why don't you . . .”

I hadn't bothered listening to the rest. I'd heard it—or a variation of it—enough times. Emergencies were the status quo at my house. There was always a problem my parents needed to fix, a fresh crisis demanding their attention. A situation so important everything else was pushed to the side.

More often than not, I was the “everything else.” But the upside of being ignored is that people forget to tell you no.

Burrs clung to my sweater as I picked my way across the muddy terrain. Clouds blanketed the sky, and the air carried a heavy, earthy scent that signaled more rain to come. With any luck I'd be back before the storm hit.

My assignment was easy enough: Walk to a nearby Echo, locate the trouble spots, Walk home. I'd done it countless times, knew the steps well enough that I didn't need a chaperone. My parents might disagree, but if they were
really
worried, they would have made the time to come with, like they were supposed to.

I could handle this on my own.

The problem was, the only person who believed me was my grandfather. When other kids were playing park district soccer or climbing trees, Monty had taken me wandering among a different set of branches—the multiverse, the infinity of worlds spreading out from ours like the limbs of a tree. It was Monty who'd first shown me how a single choice could create two distinct realities—the world we lived in and the road not traveled. He'd shown me how to move between those realities, listening for the unique frequency each was set to, using the sound as a
pathway across. I'd grown up with his voice in my ear, whispering the secrets of the multiverse, while the sounds of the Echo worlds rang through me like a bell. He'd taught me more about Walking than I'd ever learned from my parents, my older sister, Addison, or Shaw, my teacher at the Consort.

As far as they were concerned, I needed training. Someone to hold my hand while I took baby steps, when all I wanted was to run.

Today I was free to go as fast and as far as I liked.

I held my hand out, palm down, next to the wooden cross. Instantly I felt a thrumming over my skin, like a harp string roughly plucked. It was the pivot, a gate between realities, a sound so faint only one in a hundred thousand people—literally—could hear it.

There are more than six billion people in the world, but only sixty thousand licensed Walkers. Nine hundred in the greater Chicagoland area. Four of them were in my family, and by summer, I'd be the fifth.

Usually pivots are easier to hear than see, but the air around the memorial trembled like leaves in a high wind. It made sense; the strongest pivots form at places where a choice causes a sudden, significant change, and nothing's more sudden or significant than an unexpected death.

I eased inside the vibrating pocket of air, the rift expanding around me. The dissonance slid over my skin like a dusting of snow. With each step the noise in my head increased, countless frequencies competing for my attention. A pivot directly
connects two worlds, but once you're inside, you can use it to travel to any other Echo in the multiverse. The trick is knowing what to listen for.

Over breakfast, my mom had played a sample of my target frequency, the one I'd need for today's Walk. But my assignment could wait for a while.

One foot in the Key World, one inside the pivot, I reached into the fabric of the multiverse, choosing a random thread from the dense, rippling weave. The vibration turned my limbs effervescent, while the air grew heavy as water. I hummed, matching the pitch of the string in my hands. The path cleared, resistance fading along with my vision. Another step, and the pivot went wispy and gray.

Another, and I left behind the rules and disappointments and weight of the old world . . .

. . . and walked directly into oncoming traffic.

Exercise caution when crossing a pivot, as conditions may prove unexpectedly hazardous.

—Chapter Two, “Navigation,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

R
USH HOUR SWALLOWED
me whole.

Cars whipped by, sending my hair into a blinding tangle. Trucks belched exhaust fumes, and a Harley roared so loudly I fell backward, gravel biting into my palms. The pivot's buzz was lost in the chaos. I scrambled out of the path of a beat-up Chrysler, nearly losing my backpack beneath the wheels.

Not a single car honked or swerved.

Technically I wasn't invisible—Echoes could see Walkers once we touched them. Otherwise we hovered on the edges of their peripheral vision, present but not worth noticing. Usually this was a good thing, allowing us to move freely in Echo worlds. Right now it increased my odds of being flattened.

A semi barreled toward me. I fumbled for the pivot with both hands, searching for a string—any string—to use. One sang out and I latched on to it.

The truck blew by, a burst of diesel-scented air slamming into my back as I dashed through the rift.

Nobody ever said Walking was safe. Nobody ever said it was boring, either.

•  •  •

The pavement under my feet was pitted and crumbling, with weeds sprouting up through the cracks. On the opposite side of the parking lot stood a rundown apartment complex, the balconies sagging, stick-on numbers missing from half the units. A low, monotone pitch filled my ears, and I gasped in relief.

Adrenaline pumped through my veins, replacing fear with triumph. Sometimes Walking felt like a drug. The aching anticipation, the quicksilver rush, the craving for more—but it was completely legal. Even better, it was
expected.
I might not be the Walker my parents wanted; that was Addie's job. But it was my calling, and my life, and the only thing I ever wanted to do.

Best of all, it was infinite.

You could find an endless number of worlds in a single location. If one Echo didn't suit you, a few steps and a flick of your fingers would bring you to another. The rush never had to end.

Again and again I crossed the pivot, choosing new frequencies each time. I visited hospitals and strip malls, farmhouses and factories, reveling in the sensation of slipping between worlds. I never stayed long, and it never got old, watching the differences that sprang up, each Echo a unique combination of choices and circumstances.

In every world I left a tiny origami star, no bigger than a
quarter. Breadcrumbs, my grandfather called them. A piece of the Key World, left behind to mark the way home. As a child, I'd done it to humor him. Now it was part habit and part superstition, my own private ritual.