“No. Kill, like homicide. Murder-most-foul. She was very clear on that point. The only way to prevent it is to stay apart. So I tried. I’ve been trying for six years, Cam.” She sank onto the arm of the couch, still near the door, but no longer determined to leave. I’d asked for the truth, so she was going to give it to me.

“You followed me to the city, and I could have run again, or maybe I could have made you leave, but I didn’t want to. I thought that this way, I could still see you sometimes, and I’d know you were okay, even if you thought I hated you.” She shrugged, arms spread to include our current disaster. “You can see how well that worked.”

I settled onto the edge of the coffee table, staring straight into her eyes, hoping she understood how crazy the whole thing sounded. “Liv, I’m not going to kill you.”

“I know. But that only makes it worse. If you’re not going to kill me, that means I’m going kill you, and I’d rather die first. I don’t want to kill you.”

“Oh, come on.” I grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “I bet sometimes you want to kill me…”

“This isn’t funny!” She stood and started pacing angrily.

“Okay, calm down.” I grabbed her hand and she let me hold it for a second before pulling away. “Just because Elle saw something years ago doesn’t mean it’s necessarily going to happen. Or that it’ll happen exactly like she saw…whatever she saw.”

“She’s never been wrong.”

“How do you know that? Have you personally verified every prediction she’s ever made? Hell, you haven’t even seen her in six years, right?”

“She’s dead, Cam. I tried to track her. I’ve tried over and over, and I get nothing. If she were just out of my range, I’d at least get some faint hum of life, but I get nothing. She’s dead, and she’s been dead for years, and as far as I know, what she told me that night was the last prediction she ever made.”

I blinked, stunned. I’d only met Elle once and hadn’t thought about her in years, but hearing that she’d died—after making a prediction about my own possible demise—left this strange numb spot in my chest. “Are you sure? I could try name-tracking her.”

Liv shrugged. “Go for it. I hope you find something. But I’m not holding my breath. If she’s still alive, she’s been connected at the hip to a world-class Jammer for the past six years, and that’s just not possible.”

“Anything’s possible with enough money and the right connections.” I thought we’d established that. “Most Skilled celebrities keep a Jammer on staff 24/7, to prevent them from being tracked by Skilled paparazzi, and the president probably has a whole team of them.”

“Right, but Elle doesn’t have any money, and if she had connections, she hid them pretty damn well.” Liv scrubbed her face with both hands again, then pushed her hair back and met my gaze. She looked exhausted, and not just from the very long day we’d both had; Liv looked as if she hadn’t slept well in a year. “Elle’s dead, Cam. And she was right about us. She wouldn’t have said anything about it if she weren’t one-hundred-percent sure. That was kind of her policy.”

That ache in my chest spread until my heart felt like a vacuum, desperately sucking at everything in a vain attempt to fill the void. To feel something that wasn’t pain and shock. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me and if I gave you a chance, you’d talk me out of leaving. Then one of us would die. I was trying to protect you.”

“You were trying to protect me? By not telling me about the most horrible thing my future is rumored to entail? How the hell is that protecting me?” I demanded, and my pain sounded a little too much like anger. Felt a little like it, too.

“This is hell, Cam,” Liv said through clenched teeth, as if she was trying to physically hold back more tears. “I think about it all the time. I hide it. I run from it. But every time I close my eyes…every time I let my mind relax—there it is. One of us is going to kill the other. Not in a wreck or an overly enthusiastic hug. Murder. I dream about it—nightmare after nightmare. I look for it over my shoulder. I try to imagine what could possibly turn us against each other, and in my head, the scenarios leading up to murder are almost worse than the outcome itself. I didn’t want you to have to go through that, too. I thought it’d be easier for you if you didn’t know.”

She was serious. I could see it in the tears still standing in her eyes. In the closed-off, self-defensive way she crossed her arms over her chest, as if she was hugging herself.

“So you carried that all by yourself?” I didn’t understand her willingness to suffer in silence—to suffer alone—but I knew what it meant. How hard it must have been. “How long did you think that could go on?”

She shrugged miserably. “I was half hoping you’d find someone else and forget about me. Then I could leave without worrying that you’d follow me, and we’d both live.”

“With other people.” Why did just saying it out loud sound like a death sentence? I swallowed thickly and made myself meet her gaze. Promising myself I’d accept the truth of whatever she had to say. “Is that still what you want?”

“Cam, that was never what I wanted,” she said, and my relief was like a pardon from the governor. “It’s what I thought we both needed.” She glanced at the floor, then took a deep breath and looked right into my eyes. “But seeing you—touching you after so long—makes leaving again so much harder. The thought of walking through this door hurts worse than any resistance pain I’ve ever felt. Like I’m resisting a compulsion from my heart.” Her tears finally fell, and my chest ached fiercely. “I understand something now that I couldn’t come to terms with before.”