Fear courses through me and I avoid looking at him and start walking toward the library.

 

When I catch sight of him again, he’s walking casually, a good block

 

back, but it’s the second turn he’s followed me around. His black pullover—almost identical to my own—blends in with the sparse foot traffic, but it’s not hard to pick him out.

 

Still. I don’t want to be paranoid. There is the slightest of possibilities that we just happen to be going the same place.

 

Twice.

 

In the same morning.

 

I hesitate and then turn left instead of right—it’ll only extend my walk by a couple of blocks, but I don’t want to lead him straight to the library.

 

My steps slow as I approach the first corner on my new route and I sneak a peek behind me. I don’t see him yet.

 

Slower.

 

Slower.

 

Angling to the right, I glance up the sidewalk from beneath my lashes. Just as I’m about to step out of sight he comes around the corner, his eyes darting about. I snap my face away and begin power-walking again.

 

Terror ratchets through my legs, tingling in my toes, and I wonder briefly if it was a really bad idea to slow down enough to catch him, if I should have gone with my gut and made my escape while I had a chance.

 

Problem is, I don’t trust my gut anymore. It was wrong about Reese, it was wrong about Elizabeth.

 

And while I wasn’t exactly wrong about Benson, I apparently was misreading him.

 

And I don’t even know where my gut stands with Quinn.

 

But now that I’m sure this guy is following me, I want to hide. Flee. Or maybe . . . to do something. It’s an instinct I don’t recognize as my own—or maybe just one I’d forgotten, after months of helplessness in a hospital bed and further months of painstakingly gradual recovery. Regardless, it’s unmistakable now. Do something.

 

But what?

 

Make something, I finally realize, identifying the unfamiliar urge. But I reject the possibility. No. Not a chance.

 

I duck into the doorway of a colorful candy shop, hoping to maybe lose Sunglasses Guy that way. After a minute or so a very tall man walks past the door going the opposite direction I had been walking and I decide to fall into step just behind him, use him as a human shield. I’ll follow him to the end of the block, then double back on another street.

 

I stall, pretending to mess with the zipper on my backpack, then edge into the crowd so close behind him that I almost step on the heels of his shoes. Even with his head hunched down and the way he pulls his coat around him like he’s tired—or sick, maybe—the man is huge and makes me feel safe and hidden.

 

Until he flickers.

 

Just like that lady the day I ran into the wall.

 

I draw in a loud breath but manage to keep walking. I glance around me, but no one else seems to have noticed. I look at the tall man again, his back broad and solid. He’s still hiding me.

 

I squint, focusing on him, waiting for it to happen again.

 

But I don’t expect him to disappear entirely.

 

I stop walking and someone plows right into me, making me stagger forward.

 

“Watch it,” the woman says, hardly glancing back as she and her boyfriend step aside and keep walking.

 

I whip around. No one else even pauses.

 

They didn’t see him disappear? But he was really tall—and now it’s like he was never even here. Like he blinked out of existence.

 

I tighten my fists over my backpack straps and face forward, trying to walk evenly—I have to get to Benson, I think. He’ll help. Good sense manages to pierce through my panic and I begin counting so my limp doesn’t make me conspicuous.

 

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

 

I’ve completely lost sight of my tail, and I don’t dare look around to check.

 

I’m about two blocks from the library when the sky bursts open and starts really pouring on me. “Wonderful,” I mutter under my breath. “Just fan-freaking-tabulous.”

 

I’m soaked in seconds—as if the world seriously wants to spite me— but I can see the library now and it looks like a sanctuary. I know it’s not, not really—Sunglasses Guy can go in there too.

 

But Benson is inside and he makes me feel safe.

 

Nervous sweat trickles down my back as I reach the stairs and adrenaline fuels my steps. I pull the entrance door too hard and it clatters against the wall behind it, earning me the attention of every library patron within earshot.

 

Great.

 

I’m soaked to the bone as I step into the warm lobby, wishing I didn’t look quite so bedraggled. Benson is by my side before I can take more than about three steps and I want to throw my arms around him, hold myself against his chest until the trembling stops.

 

The impulse shocks me into stillness. I shouldn’t want Benson so strongly—especially after having just seen Quinn this morning—Quinn, who makes my chest ache with longing and my mind spin in bliss.

 

So why do I?

 

I don’t know. But I keep coming back to the burn of Benson’s lips on mine, the possessive way his arms wound around me, how warm it felt to have his body pressed against me. I look up at him and know the sheen of wanting is shining in my eyes. But I don’t have the energy to hide it.

 

“You okay?” he asks, his face lined with concern. “Rough morning?”

 

Tell no one. “You could say that,” I grumble.

 

The main doors open, and just past Benson’s shoulder I catch a glimpse of dark hair. I take half a step to my right to put Benson’s admittedly slim profile between us and peek out.

 

Black pullover and sunglasses.

 

He found me.

 

“Can we go to your office?” I ask, desperation in my voice. “Right now? Please?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Benson says, looking confused. He doesn’t ask any more questions, though, and leads me zigzagging across the floor, through the study tables, to the doorway of a barely closet-size alcove.

 

With a fast but searching glance behind me, I sit in the chair across from Benson and shove my backpack underneath the table. Then I scoot to the side of the chair, attempting to hunch out of view.

 

“If it’s about yesterday, we can find another way to get some privacy,” Benson whispers—his office doesn’t have a door, or even a proper doorway, so it would be ridiculously easy for someone to overhear us. “We could even go somewhere else if you wanted—”

 

“It’s not about that,” I murmur. But just bringing up yesterday makes my head pound. It was too strong a mix of amazing and devastating. I sit up and within seconds am squishing a stress ball first in one fist and then the other. I’ve passed it back and forth a few times before I realize I created it without even thinking. Horrified, I thrust it onto Benson’s desk, where it rolls innocently across the uneven surface until it collides with a pile of paper clips.

 

Benson leans forward, reaching for my hand, doing his best to ignore the yellow ball. “Are you okay?”

 

My nod is more than a little spasmodic and I pull my hand out of reach. My thoughts are caught in a whirlpool of confusion and I can’t let the touch of his skin make things worse. I begin to wonder if this is what having a mental breakdown feels like.

 

“Are you sure? Because, um, you’re sweating.” He looks meaningfully at my forehead and I realize I didn’t even feel the drop of sweat that’s now tickling my cheek. I lift my sleeve to wipe it away, feeling gross.

 

“Benson?” My throat freezes and I can’t continue.

 

“Yes?” he says after a long pause.

 

“Remember the man I told you about?” I say it before my jaw can clamp shut against the words.

 

“You mean . . . Quinn?”

 

“No.” Please don’t mention Quinn. I can’t talk about Quinn. Not just yet. “No, the man with the sunglasses; the one who I’ve seen a couple times.”

 

“Yeah . . .”

 

“He’s been following me since I left home this morning. Down into the historic district, then to Elizabeth’s office. And now he’s here and he—” I shut my mouth. I’m rambling.

 

“Did he see you . . .” He hesitates and leans forward before finishing in a whisper, “Did he see you do anything?”

 

“Make anything? No!” But I remember the locket and add, very quietly, “I don’t think.”

 

“Okay. That’s good, right?” he asks, peering out at the library floor over my shoulder.

 

“I think maybe Reese and Jay sent him.”

 

He looks confused. “Why would they start having you followed?”

 

“Why would they decide to fry my brain?” I ask, feeling both questions are equally valid. “Point is, this guy’s been following me, and now he’s here, and you have to help me get away.”

 

“Can you point him out?” Benson asks.

 

If only it were that simple. “Just in case he doesn’t know I’ve spotted him, I have to keep pretending I don’t see him.”

 

“Good point,” Benson says. “Tell me what he looks like.”

 

“He’s got dark brown hair, he’s probably about six feet. He was wearing sunglasses and a black pullover.”

 

Either of which he may have taken off on entering the library.

 

I sift through my recollection. It’s amazingly hard to describe someone when all you have to go on are furtive glances. “Brown shoes. He’s got brown shoes. Lace-ups, like Docs or hiking boots.”

 

“Okay,” Benson says, writing something I can’t see on a Post-it note. “I’ll find that for you.” His voice is just a little louder as he rises from his chair.

 

I open my mouth to protest and realize he’s pretending to find a book. Perfect. I turn and watch him go—that would be natural, right?— and my eyes instantly find the man, sitting at a corner table, pretending to read.

 

My gaze jerks away as if he’ll sense everything if I look too long. Benson won’t be able to miss him. Surely.

 

I sit at the desk, breathing in and out and forcing myself to calm down. I’m here with Benson; he’s going to help me.

 

I’m almost calm when the stress ball I’d nearly forgotten about suddenly disappears. I squeak and shrink away.

 

Ten seconds later Benson touches my shoulder and I almost jump out of my skin. “Sorry,” he says, but there’s a question in his voice when he sees my reaction.

 

“I’m okay,” I say, trying to whisper. “I promise, I’m good now.” After studying me for a moment Benson sits down again and places a large reference book on top of his desk. “I saw him,” he says quietly as he riffles through the pages, pretending to show me something. “I think you should head home.”

 

“Home? Why?”

 

“It’s close enough to walk and probably safer than here.” He glances back out at the library over the rim of his glasses. “Reese is gone, right? I’ll find a way to distract this guy, then I’ll meet you there. It’ll be just the two of us and we’ll talk about everything we know and figure something out.”

 

“What if he’s dangerous? He could hurt you.”

 

Benson laughs wryly. “He’s in a government building—trust me, he doesn’t want to cause trouble here. Besides, he already knows how to find you. This is just a temporary fix so we can buy some time.”

 

I nod hesitantly. “Okay. But you’ll come after me, right?”

 

The only thing more intense than Benson’s whisper is his steady blue-eyed gaze. “I’ll always come for you.”