My thoughts and I are silent for the first few minutes as we drive along. I stick to quiet neighborhood streets, avoiding anywhere people might be looking for us. For me. Benson is texting someone. “My mom,” he explains.

 

I’m already too full of guilt to feel any more.

 

I don’t know where we’re going—I decided against my earlier plan

 

of staying at Benson’s pretty quickly. All that matters now is that I’m putting some distance between us and Reese and Jay’s house. Mark and Samantha’s house, I guess. Enough distance to think, to plan. To figure out some way to keep from getting killed.

 

Or killing someone.

 

We’re passing through an older neighborhood with no sign of Jay, Elizabeth, or Sunglasses Guy on our tail. I’m glad I’m busy driving; otherwise I’d be obsessively scrutinizing every house for a glowing triangle. Just as I have this thought, the street sign catches my eyes and I realize I’m about to pass Fifth. Impulsively, I stomp on the brake and swerve to the right, nearly dumping Benson into my lap.

 

“Jeez, a little warning next time,” Benson grumbles, rubbing his side where it hit the gearshift.

 

“Sorry,” I say, and though I really am, I’m so focused I know I don’t sound genuine. I suspect the time for subtlety is long past, so I just pull up right in front of the old house and point. “Do you see that?” I ask, suppressing my nervous tension as I swing my pointer finger to the house’s door.

 

If I didn’t look like a creeper before, I do now.

 

“See what?” Benson asks warily.

 

“The triangle.” It’s light, but it’s definitely there. “Do you see it?”

 

“Where?” Benson asks, squinting.

 

“Above the door. It’s kinda gray.”

 

He peers across my lap, then leans a little closer, pressing against me. I hold my breath.

 

“I . . .” He pauses, and in that second I allow myself to dream that maybe he too can make out the mysterious shape. “I don’t see anything, Tave.”

 

I swallow a lump of disappointment and silently start to pull away from the curb, but I only make it one block before I pull over again.

 

“You okay?” Benson asks, his fingers brushing my hand.

 

Tears start to sting, but I refuse to let them fall. “No . . . I’m—I’m not.”

 

“What’s the matter?” he asks gently.

 

My chin quivers and I clench my teeth down to make it stop. “You— you need to get out. You can walk home from here.”

 

Benson sits back against the seat, his arms crossed over his chest, and raises one eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

 

“Benson, seriously, I—I have to go and you’re not coming with me.”

 

“What are you talking about?” he asks, almost icily.

 

“I’m running away from some kind of supernatural mob. You saw what I did to Elizabeth and Jay—hell, what I almost did to your roommate. I’m crazy dangerous and you shouldn’t be around me, much less the people who want to kill me.”

 

He’s quiet for a long time, then he turns his face toward me and reaches out tentatively with his hands, wrapping his long fingers around my thigh. “Look at me.”

 

I don’t want to. Don’t want to feel that slow, easy comfort that’s spreading from his hand on my leg. Don’t want to face what it means.

 

Or what it might not mean.

 

But he’s silent, waiting.

 

I lift my chin, trying to look tough and strong. Like I’ll kick his ass if he tries to follow me. But I suspect my trembling lip ruins the effect.

 

“I’m not leaving you,” Benson whispers. “I—I’ve only just come to understand what you really mean to me. I know this is dangerous.” He pauses, pressing his lips together. “Probably even more dangerous than you think. But I’m coming with you.”

 

His other hand is on my face now, cradling my cheek and forcing me to look up. I resist; keep my eyes closed. But soon I can’t bear it. His blue eyes stare down at me, so steady and sure it makes the butterflies take flight in my stomach again.

 

“If you kick me out of this car and drive away, I will walk to the library—which is several miles away at this point, I might add—get my car, and drive around all day looking for you.” He cracks a half smile. “Save us both the trouble, will you?”

 

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” I protest.

 

“I know exactly what I’m getting into.”

 

He kisses me so softly, so briefly, it would be easy to deny that it happened at all except that my mouth feels like it’s on fire.

 

I pull away before I can lose my wits completely. It’s not fair. “But . . . doesn’t it bother you that I spend half my time thinking about Quinn? You know,” I add in a mumble, “whenever I’m not thinking about you.”

 

His face is close to mine and I know I should turn away—let him go—but after the stress of the day I crave contact. I crave him. His mouth closes over mine and a tiny sound escapes my throat as I curl my fingers behind his neck, pulling him closer.

 

“Think I’m afraid of a little competition?” he taunts playfully, pulling back ever so slightly.

 

“I . . .” My thoughts are a jumble of Benson and Quinn, but I close my eyes and kiss him, hold him, surrendering to the taste of him on my tongue.

 

A deafening noise throws us apart as something shatters through the back window, striking just behind my shoulder with a thud that reverberates through my seat.

 

“Go!” Benson yells, and as I peel away from the sidewalk I hear more shots ping into the body of the car, making the frame shudder as I try to keep control and stay on the correct side of the road.

 

Benson is on his knees, his face shielded behind the headrest, poking out to get a better look as I crazily whirl around the corner. “It’s the guy from the library!” Benson yells.

 

“How did he find us?” I ask as I squeal the tires around another corner. “We’re miles away!”

 

“I don’t know. He must have . . . I don’t know, tracked me to your house?” He sits back in his seat, buckling in. I don’t blame him.

 

I take the first two turns I see—one right, one left—and hope for no dead ends.

 

“He may be on foot, but he’s cutting through all the yards. We gotta get out of this neighborhood.”

 

I nod and look for a good outlet.

 

“This guy needs to run a marathon or something. He is fast.”

 

“I’m faster,” I say, finally pulling onto a busy street and flooring the gas.

 

A minute later, Benson casts one more look over his shoulder. “He’s totally out of sight now,” he says, buckling his seatbelt again. “I’m pretty sure he got a damn good look at the car, though.”

 

“So spilling coffee on him wasn’t as effective as we’d hoped?” I joke, tossing one more mock-condescending look at him. Something—maybe the adrenaline—has given me both my nerve and my sense of humor back. Or maybe it’s just what happens when you’re behind the wheel of such a nice car.

 

“Guess not.” Benson gives me a hint of a smirk, but he’s the one who looks nervous now.

 

I’ve figured out where I am and take one more right, heading toward the interstate. “Last chance,” I say as I pull to a stop at a red light less than half a mile from the freeway entrance. “This is real, Benson. And if you come with me, there’s no turning back.”

 

“There’s already no turning back,” he says, staring studiously out the front windshield.

 

“Benson?” I ask as we approach the 95. “Do you know where Camden is?” Tiny detail.

 

“Camden, Maine?”

 

“Is there another Camden?”

 

“Not that I know of. Not around here anyway.”

 

“Then yes, that one.”

 

“Yeah, it’s this cool old town . . . Probably five or six hours from here. East. Well, northeast. Along the coastline.”

 

Perfect. “Let’s start there,” I say, clicking on the right-turn signal.

 

“How come?”

 

Tell no one. The words sound in my head as if Quinn was sitting in the backseat screaming them. “Just a hunch.”

 

 

“They headed east,” he says, standing in front of my desk. The one I despise. I look up into my own reflection, fish-eyed in the dark glass. “Take those off; I hate when I can’t see your eyes,” I say sharply. As sharply as I can, in a whisper.

 

He removes his sunglasses sheepishly. A sheep, I think acerbically. That’s exactly what he is. It’s what most of these humans are. Not that it’s really their fault. It’s what we always wanted them to be.

 

“Did you get a couple shots in?” I ask once his eyes are visible.

 

“Any more and I might have actually hit her.”

 

I smile, just a little. “Perfect,” I say. “Scared and on the run. Just the way I like her.”

 

“Should I move my guys in?”

 

“Not yet,” I say, picturing her in my mind. Panicking. Doing everything wrong. Acting like the human she still thinks she is. “Stay close—watch her.” I lift one eyebrow. “Don’t you want to see what happens next?”