He’s beautiful in the morning sunlight. Beautiful seems like a funny word to use for a guy, but it’s fitting. The line of light shining in from the window makes the tips of his eyelashes glow, and despite the purple bruise beneath his eye, he looks boyish without his glasses.

 

He wakes up slowly and smiles when he realizes I’m watching him. “I was a little afraid it was a dream,” he says, his voice gravelly.

 

We must have both been totally exhausted, because it’s almost eleven by the time we wake up. I’d like to linger—even spend the day shut up together with one shower and one bed—but the fact that we’ve managed to evade my tails for a full twelve hours makes both of us anxious to get back on the road and stay one step ahead of them.

 

Especially since we’re going back to Camden today.

 

I shoulder my backpack while Benson grabs the journals, but as we leave the room, Benson veers right instead of left, heading away from the hotel we actually checked into last night. Where Reese’s car is still parked.

 

“Where are you going?” I ask.

 

“To get us a car,” he says, that same grim look on his face he was wearing after he got jumped. Like something bad just happened and something worse is coming.

 

I don’t understand why he seems so reluctant until he looks both ways and leans down next to a dark green Honda, fiddling with the lock. “Are you stealing this car?” I ask, horrified.

 

He pauses, then looks up at me. “I would do a lot of illegal things to keep you safe, Tave,” he says with an intensity that makes my toes warm. “Just be glad this one doesn’t actually hurt anyone.”

 

I try to pretend I’m not aiding and abetting a crime—anothercrime— as I slip into the passenger seat. Benson hesitates, then turns the car and drives around the building toward the Holiday Inn. “I just want to see.”

 

It’s impossible to miss.

 

Four cop cars and a fire truck are parked around our former hotel room, their lights flashing. My eyes immediately go to the black smoke wisping off the charred hunk of metal that used to be the BMW. A fire fighter is dowsing it with a weak stream of water, and it takes me a second to realize the car is upside down.

 

I tear my gaze away and turn in my seat to look at the hotel room we almost slept in. The door is lying on the sidewalk in several pieces, and shattered glass from the large front window blankets the ground. The curtains hang torn on the other side of the empty window frame, and I can just make out the mattress leaned against the wall and the TV stand tipped over.

 

“Don’t look anymore,” Benson says, and I turn my eyes forward.

 

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I say, not the least bit ashamed of the quaver in my voice. I reach for his hand, loosening my grip when I remember it’s his injured one. He gives me a pained smile in response.

 

“So where are we going?” he asks as we approach the highway.

 

“The house was just outside of Camden,” I say after a hard swallow. “Head that way.”

 

I know what Quinn is now—he’s not like the people hunting me: the Reduciata or Sunglasses Guy or Reese and Jay, whoever they are—he’s like me. He’s an Earthbound.

 

He’s also a ghost who can’t hurt me. But he can do something. Since I first saw him, he’s had some kind of control over me, over my emotions. I wouldn’t say that he can make me do things, exactly, but it’s mortifying to think about the way I sneaked away from Benson and followed him into the woods.

 

In the dark.

 

Anything could have happened. And what’s worse, I knew it. And I went anyway.

 

But that hotel room. That car. I don’t think I understood until now just how vicious the people after us could be. The night I went off with Quinn, it could have been Benson burned to a crisp.

 

He could have died because I left him.

 

As that thought sinks in, holding his hand isn’t enough. I loop my arm around his, hugging it against my chest with my head resting lightly on his shoulder while he drives, needing to feel the warmth of his skin, the sound of his breathing, the faint beating of his heart. All signs that he’s still alive.

 

That he’s still mine.

 

And I promise in my mind that I will never let these people take him away.

 

I just wish I had a better idea of who these people are. Or, at the very least, who specifically pulled the job at the hotel. Sadly, I have several options. Reese and Jay—but I don’t believe they’d do something like this. Violence like this seems more like a Sunglasses Guy thing. But who does he work for? The Reduciata? This whole thing would be a hell of a lot easier if I knew who I was actually running from.

 

We’re about five miles from Camden when a pit forms in my stomach. Revisiting a town we’ve already been to twice seems more than a little dangerous, even though we’re not going to the exact same place. In a town as tiny as Camden, going to Quinn’s house versus his hideaway isn’t much of a difference. Whoever’s tracking us has to know we stopped here yesterday, before proceeding on to the Holiday Inn. It’s likely they know about the first time we stopped here too. I have visions of them lying in wait, guns in hand, and it doesn’t seem very fantastical.

 

“You ready?” Benson asks as the sign welcoming us to Camden comes into sight.

 

I don’t know if I’m more afraid of what might be waiting for us . . . or that nothing will be. No house, no answers, not even any clues. If I don’t find some answers here, I’m not sure we’ll have the resources to survive until tomorrow. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

 

In a few minutes we’re turning down a street just outside of Camden, and I feel my chest finally start to relax as the buildings grow sparse. Fewer places for an assassin to hide. I’d like just one day to go by without someone trying to kill me. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask.

 

We’re on crumbly county roads now and there’s forest on both sides. “There should be a road coming up soon,” I say, leaning forward and searching for it.

 

Benson points to a faint dirt road that speaks of decades of neglect, and the car bumps off the pavement. He grins. “Glad you’re not a serial killer,” he says, leaning to nudge his shoulder against mine. “Because this would be an awesome place to ditch a body.”

 

Thank you for that visual, I think, knowing the comment was supposed to lighten the mood. Somehow, it only made everything feel more serious. More dangerous. “At least we haven’t seen anyone following us,” I manage in response. I can feel the house approaching us instead of the other way around. “It’s coming up,” I say, peering into the trees. I catch sight of a barely there path that isn’t nearly wide enough for even a compact car and point it out.

 

“Time to hoof it?” Benson asks, and I nod, though no words come out. My throat is frozen.

 

In a complete turnaround from last night, the sun is out in full force today, melting all the snow it dumped on us two nights ago. I’d like to take it as a good omen, but really, it’s yet another sign of how screwed up the world is.

 

The path is muddy and slick with wet grass, and baby leaves drip water droplets onto our heads when we disturb them. But we don’t have far to go; the path ends at what I know used to be a white-picket fence. There’s nothing left of it, though.

 

It, or the house.

 

Disappointment surges through me. It was foolish to think Quinn’s house would still be here, looking just like the painting. I pick my way across years of fallen leaves, reminding myself that two centuries is a long time. My eyes follow the path to the house that’s invisible except in the memory that feels as much mine as Quinn’s.

 

I step closer to where the house used to be.

 

It’s almost nothing now—a broken outline of what might have once been a foundation, covered in green moss. There’s a pile of old stones that hints at a fireplace on the north side, but it could just as easily be a heap of rocks some kids made twenty years ago. My toes find the edge of a stone barrier that’s more or less straight and I follow it carefully, hoping that it’ll give me some insight into the structure that existed here so long ago. It’s only when it turns a third straight corner that I’m sure this was, in fact, the foundation.

 

“Wow,” Benson whispers when I reach him again, coming to the same conclusion. “This is really it.”

 

It is.

 

I can feel it.

 

It’s the familiarity I expected to feel in Camden. And now I understand—it’s not the city, it’s here. This place. This is where Quinn meant for me to come.

 

As though hearing his name in my thoughts, Quinn’s presence resonates within me, filling my soul with a silent music like the vibrations of an enormous bell. My backpack slides from my shoulders as I stand before what would have been the front of the house. It wasn’t large—not that homes in that era ever were. But big enough for one.

 

Two, my mind whispers, and I nearly hiss aloud in jealousy as I push the thought away. Why am I jealous? I don’t want Quinn! He’s not even real!

 

And Benson is here. Benson, who took a beating for me. Who kept me warm last night.

 

I force my eyes back to the hint of ruins and imagine what the house looked like from the brief glance I got of the painting at Quinn’s secret hideaway. Yellow, with smooth wooden slates. Two windows on either side of the door.

 

And curtains. The thought comes unbidden. Red gingham curtains.

 

The picture that flashes in my head is so vivid that I step back and look up.

 

At a house.

 

A real house.

 

Not exactly real, I remind myself, even as I gasp at the vision that has appeared in front of me. It’s like Quinn—it looks real, but it can’t be.

 

I’m standing on what would have been the front porch. It spans the entire length of the house and thin white pillars support the roof. Glistening wind chimes sway in a gentle breeze.

 

Wind chimes.

 

Just like the ones I hung on the porch at Reese and Jay’s.

 

I hung them across the front veranda myself. Found them a couple months ago at a flea market downtown. Reese laughed and told me I could hang a dozen if I wanted to.

 

So I did.

 

Quinn’s house has wind chimes too.

 

Now I’m seeing connections where there really aren’t any, I berate myself. Tons of people collect wind chimes.

 

Of course, I’m seeing a lot of things lately, so perhaps that’s not the best argument.

 

But when I look to the front door, I can’t hold back a gasp.

 

A triangle glows gold above the door so brightly it’s hard to look at. Boldly proclaimed for anyone to see, it might as well be spelled out: this is an Earthbound home.

 

The door beckons me, tempts me, and though a rational part of my mind knows it’s not real, I can’t resist. I walk forward and reach out my hand.

 

It melts right through the doorknob. Of course I can’t touch it. But . . .

 

I set my jaw and walk forward. A tingling sensation crackles over my skin as I walk through the opaque door and find myself inside the house. With my mouth agape, I look around the room, catching sight of the cheery, wood-burning stove in the corner and the soft gray stone mantelpiece over the fireplace.

 

I allow my eyes to drift to the other corner and startle when I see a woman standing there. Her back is to me and I sense she’s humming, though I don’t hear anything. It seems like all my senses have been muffled except sight.

 

She’s pulling a quilt over a delicately carved four-poster bed. Once it’s in place, she tosses a pillow into the air, fluffing it in her hands before plopping it down at the head of the bed.

 

I can’t see her face, but I recognize the thick brown braid from the painting. Rebecca. They must have lived here together.

 

Again that misplaced, irrational envy washes over me and I gasp. As if hearing me, Rebecca turns.

 

I stagger backward when I see her face.

 

She’s me.

 

Or someone who looks just like me.

 

That doesn’t make any sense. Not unless my crazy brain is projecting myself into the scene . . . ?

 

Her eyes stare into space—her thoughts clearly wandering—and her hands reach up to touch something at her throat.

 

I see a necklace, and a jolt of possessiveness burns through me. I want to reach out and snatch the shining silver from her fingers. I push my knuckles against my teeth and force myself to remain where I am.

 

Still silent, Rebecca turns toward the door and her soft brown eyes light up.

 

I tremble, forcing myself not to turn to the front of the house to see who has walked in.

 

I know who it is.

 

Quinn.

 

A hat flies by me, landing on the bed, and my arm explodes into tingles as I feel him pass, brushing through me. Then he’s in my sight line and my legs shake, then crumple beneath me as every feeling I’ve tried to deny for the last few days floods through, fills me, overflows— too much for my skin to hold inside.

 

His coat comes next and my fists clench against the floorboards as it slips down his long, lanky arms and joins the discarded hat on the bed.

 

Quinn reaches for Rebecca and she steps forward, their bodies melding together with a rightness I can’t deny. A cry of dismay builds up in my throat and I grit my teeth shut against it.

 

I hear Benson behind me, but only vaguely, like an echo from another world. Someone I used to know.

 

I should turn—I should listen, but my eyes are fixed on the excruciating, sweet pain of seeing Quinn hold someone else. His hand cups her cheek, his thumb traces her jawline. I reach my hand up to my own face, as though I can will those hands to be on me instead of her.

 

My heart races, then immediately slows, and every breath is an effort as I wonder if agony or ecstasy will kill me first—I’m certain one of them is going to. I can’t bear this much longer.

 

Just as I realize agony is going to win, I feel as though my soul is ripping from my body and then I’m looking down on myself.

 

But only for a moment.

 

I’m settling.

 

Settling into a familiar place.

 

I’m home.

 

Where I belong.

 

A cool metal is heavy against my throat and my eyelashes rise to meet a white-shirted chest in front of my eyes. Insistent fingers are tilting my chin up to meet warm lips, while an arm pulls me close.

 

Of course. My mind sees it before I do and my heart rushes to catch up.

 

He’s holding this woman.

 

He’s caressing Rebecca.

 

He’s kissing me.