“Not my girlfriend,” Benson responds blandly, without looking at him, his hand on my shoulder, ushering me toward the stairs. I stiffen, trying to shove away the dart of hurt that goes through my heart at his words.

“Good news for me,” the guy says, his smile growing even bigger.

“Underage,” Benson calls back.

“I am not,” I whisper.

“Trust me, it’s better if Dustin thinks you are,” Benson whispers back. “World’s only virginal self-proclaimed seducer, and he’s so desperate to lose it he’ll hit on anything even remotely feminine.”

I snicker.

“Don’t laugh,” Benson says wearily as we reach the top of the stairs. “He’s my roommate.” He pushes open the door and my eyes widen at the two walls so completely covered in topless women it might as well be the wallpaper.

“Nice,” I say dryly.

“I did warn you.” He shakes his head, then motions to the other half of the room. “This is my side.”

Benson’s bedroom is exactly what I would have expected. Sparse, but neat, with an eclectic collection of posters and knickknacks. He picks up a polo shirt draped across an armchair and gestures for me to sit.

“So?” he asks, taking a seat at the foot of his bed and tossing the shirt up onto his pillow.

Silence settles between us.

“I saw Quinn yesterday,” I blurt, realizing I’m going to have to start my confession there before I can explain the rest.

Benson just grimaces.

“It’s why I came to the library in the first place.” I clamp my mouth shut; that wasn’t the right thing to say either. Hey, guy I made out with last night, I only came to see you because of another guy. And then we kissed. And then I pulled magical ChapStick out of my pockets. Now I’m running from a conspiracy that might be trying to kill me. I groan and put my face in my hands. “I know this is so incredibly awkward, but I have to tell you about him or none of the rest makes any sense.”

“I’m listening,” Benson says, and though his voice is tight, it doesn’t sound angry.

Tentatively I say, “His name is Quinn.”

“You mentioned that. So … you guys talked?” Benson asks, still not looking at me.

“I told him that the stunt he pulled at my house was unacceptable.”

A tiny tick of a smile. “And he said he won’t do it again?”

Kind of. “Basically.” But it tastes like a lie and I don’t like to lie to Benson. “He talks kinda strange.”

“It sounds to me like everything about this guy is strange.”

I can’t argue with that. Instead I relay the whole conversation.

“Things to show you? What does that mean?” Benson asks.

“I don’t know, but … hopefully I’ll find out next time I see him.”

“Next time? You’re already planning it, aren’t you? Even though he’s talking about time running out and people you should fear.”

I just glare.

Benson fiddles with the zipper on his backpack sitting next to his bed. “I don’t understand, Tave,” he finally says, not meeting my eyes. “You’re so logical, so smart. It’s like all that disappeared when this guy showed up.”

My knee-jerk reaction is to be hurt, but a sting of conscience makes me admit that he’s right. I hardly recognize myself, my decisions, since this guy walked into my life. “It isn’t that I’m not being smart,” I insist automatically. “It’s something else, something I can’t really explain. I know he won’t hurt me. You have to trust me on this one.”

“What does he look like?” Benson asks after a minute.

“Why does everyone want to know what he looks like?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

“Who else did you tell?”

“Elizabeth totally dragged it out of me.”

“You told your therapist?”

“It is her job,” I mutter, even though I still kinda hate that I told her.

“So?”

“So what?”

“What does he look like?”

I tilt my head at him, not sure why he cares, but I rattle off the basics. “No horns, no fangs, no wings,” I tack on when I’m done.

“What did Elizabeth say about him?”

“She kind of encouraged me, actually,” I mutter, feeling instantly guilty.

He raises one eyebrow sardonically. “What the hell are you supposed to do when your shrink is crazier than you are?”

“You try not to let her kill you, I guess,” I say, my voice hollow. We’ve finally reached the reason I called him.

Benson bolts to his feet, staring down at me. “What do you mean, Tave?”

“After my session with Elizabeth, I went home. And I guess Reese didn’t hear me come in because she was on the phone with Elizabeth—she called her Liz, by the way, not Dr. Stanley—and they were talking about all kinds of crazy stuff.” As I speak, Benson drops to the floor in front of me, rubbing warmth into my icy-cold hands as I relay the conversation as best I can remember. I close my eyes and focus on the feeling of his hands on mine, trying to remember every secret, every threat, the fact that they expect me to be dead in a week. The words become heavier as I repeat them, as though my uttering them aloud suddenly makes them real.

“Tave?” Benson asks when I’ve finished.