He hesitates and I’m amused that he’s worried that he might be able to say anything to ruffle me. I feel like we’re miles past that point.

“Do you think this Quinn guy is the one looking for you?”

I was wrong.

My fingers clench around his and I clamp my teeth so quickly I catch the skin of my cheek. I wince at the pain and touch the tip of my tongue to the stinging spot in my mouth. “No,” I say without further explanation.

“Tave, you have to at least consider it.”

My head is already jerking back and forth. “No. He would never want to hurt me.”

“You don’t know that,” Benson says, leaning forward. “All kinds of people can want to hurt you. People you would never—you can’t know.”

“It could be anyone else, Benson. Like this lady when I scraped my head or—” My voice rises as soon as I think of it. “There’s this man with sunglasses. I’ve seen him twice now and—”

“And you’ve seen Quinn three times. Twice at your house,” Benson interrupts.

“He wouldn’t—” My voice cuts off as my head falls into my hands. “How can I explain it to you? I can’t even explain it to myself.” I slump against the arm of the chair. “I’m just so tired.”

“Stay here,” Benson says. “I’ll be right back.”

What?

I recline into the surprisingly soft armchair as Benson slips out the door, leaving it a few inches ajar. My head is starting to ache and I remember that the whole reason I went home at all was because I skipped lunch … and breakfast—I’ve got to start taking better care of myself. Woman cannot live on caffeine alone.

In a moment of clarity I wonder just how bad this can be. So my shrink is sharing information I gave her in confidence …

With my guardian who took me in with basically no warning and has provided for my every need for the last eight months. And who’s trying to hide me from someone. And getting ready to run. With me? Without me? After getting rid of me? I don’t even know.

No matter how I justify it, everything comes back to that.

Could Elizabeth be trying to hide me from Quinn? That doesn’t make any sense—why would she tell me it was okay to see him if she knew he was dangerous? And I refuse to consider that Benson might be right—that Quinn is the danger. It doesn’t fit.

I look over at Benson’s desk, trying to distract myself. There’s a small, framed picture and I lean over and grab it to get a better look. Benson, probably two or three years ago, with an older guy and a woman. His mom and brother, I assume. He mentions them fairly often.

I study their faces. Benson and his brother don’t look alike at all except for their matching brown hair, but I can see his mother’s features in his face. The angular jawline, high cheekbones, and wide eyes. They’re all smiling. Part of me feels like I should be jealous, resentful even. Benson has a family—minus a dad, apparently, but still—and mine are dead.

Of course I could never wish such a thing on Benson. I’m completely happy for him, I realize as I put the picture back. I’m glad I can be. Elizabeth says empathy is the most important part of being human.

Elizabeth.

I lean my head back and focus on Benson with his family instead. Dare to imagine myself in the scene with him. It feels like the most far-fetched of fantasies at the moment. My eyelids grow heavy and I let them slip closed. Just resting my eyes a bit.

I don’t hear Benson’s footsteps until the soft snick of the door closing makes my eyes snap open. “Here,” Benson says, handing me a large Tupperware. “I’ve been saving these since Halloween. The guys had this stupid idea that we should be ready to hand out candy even though I told them no kids live around here. But they bought a ton anyway and there are still leftovers.”

I lift the lid to find an assortment of mini candy bars, and my mouth instantly starts to water. I scarf about five of them before everything starts to feel significantly less stressful. “Thanks,” I say, unwrapping another mini Snickers.

Benson leans forward, his hands sitting on each side of my knees. His thumbs rub little circles on my jeans, soothing some of my tension as I eat a rather embarrassing amount of chocolate while I talk.

“What am I going to do, Benson?” I finally ask. My energy and resolve seem to have left along with the tension, and my bones feel like noodles. At this moment I’m not entirely certain I could stand up if my life depended on it. “They expect me to be dead in a week.”

He scoots forward a few more inches and his hands slide up my thighs. I don’t resist—it feels good. The warmth from his palms seeps through my jeans and into my skin and makes my fingers tingle, reminding me that I’m not numb. Not completely.

Not yet.

“I’m not going to tell you empty words,” Benson murmurs. “I won’t patronize you like that. But whatever’s going to happen, I’ll help you. I’ll be there with you.” He leans forward and I feel my heart pounding in my ears as his face draws closer.

Closer.

“It’ll be dangerous,” I protest, the words barely audible as they escape through my teeth. It’s my last opportunity to lean back, to pull away. But I don’t want to. All I can focus on is his face, his mouth. My nerves crackle and my tongue darts out to touch my bottom lip.

“I don’t care.”

My eyes drift closed and—