“Tavia, stop, you need to slow down and think about this.” Benson’s face is white and his words tumble like white water. “What exactly are you doing?”

I scarcely hear him as I stuff socks, underwear, and my favorite jeans in my backpack. “I have to get out of here. I need answers,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. A pair of red bikinis drops to the carpet and I don’t feel even the barest twinge of embarrassment when Benson looks down and sees them a second before I snatch them up and stuff them in with the rest of the clothes.

We are way beyond that.

“Tavia, seriously. Where are you going to go?”

“I don’t care. Away. That’s all that matters. I have to go now!”

“Go where?” Benson demands, grabbing my shoulders to make me look at him.

I don’t want to—I let my eyes dart to the ceiling, his shoulders, the window, anywhere but his soft blue eyes. He gives me a gentle shake and I can’t avoid it anymore. I let my gaze rise to meet his.

“Where?” he repeats. “And what are we going to do with her?” He inclines his head to where I can still hear Elizabeth calling me, begging me to come back.

“They killed my parents, Benson. Reese, Jay, and Elizabeth—they’re all involved. They murdered them. They got me on that plane! I know that Reese and Elizabeth are working together; they’re just trying to get something out of me and then they will Fry. My. Brain.” A sob builds up in my throat as hopelessness washes over me. “If I don’t leave, I’m as good as dead.”

He says nothing, but his hands loosen on my shoulders, and when I pull away to stuff things in my backpack again, he doesn’t try to hold on.

“Can I stay with you for a few days?” I ask on impulse.

“I guess,” he says. “But …”

I’m not sure I can stand to hear what he wants to say. I’m already so overwhelmed my fingers are trembling as I dig into a sock and pull out the money that represents the extent of my personal fortune.

It’s less than forty dollars.

I’m so screwed.

Maybe Benson will lend me some.

No. I can’t. I can’t ask him for anything else.

Maybe I shouldn’t even stay with him. What if they decide to just murder him too?

“I’m going to see if Reese and Jay have any money sitting around in their room.” I should just say what I mean: I’m going to see if I can steal some money from Reese and Jay.

What else can I do?

I guess if I had to, I could magic myself some money when I went to buy something, but when it disappeared five minutes later, wouldn’t I still be a thief? I can hurt people and steal stuff. Why the hell is this happening to me?

If I have to take something from someone, at least I know Reese and Jay are the bad guys.

So why do I still feel guilty?

Maybe because I know my mother wouldn’t be proud of me at this moment, and that thought makes me want to die inside.

After a quick glance down the hallway, where I can still hear Elizabeth yelling, I go and stand in front of Reese and Jay’s bedroom door. When I reach for the knob and turn it, it gives easily.

They didn’t lock it.

They trust me.

It’s a thought so jarringly dissonant from my actions that I stop, hand still poised on the knob as I try to think clearly. Why should they trust me? Do they think I’m that ignorant? Or do they think I’m so under their control that I couldn’t possibly be dangerous?

Do they control me? Even after everything that’s happened, the fact is that I don’t know what I am.

And they do.

The door skims across the carpet as I push it open, a whisper in the silent bedroom. They have a chic, deco-style room with a sleek black king-size bed and square silver bedside tables. Wondering if I’ll leave foot prints on the carpet—and then deciding it doesn’t matter—I stride first to Reese’s side of the bed, then Jay’s.

The top of Reese’s table is empty except for the lamp. I’m not surprised. Bedside tables tend to reflect a person’s personality more accurately than any clinical test, in my opinion. Sparse, elegant, and organized. That’s Reese.

Still, a peek into the table’s shallow drawer nets me seventeen dollars, crisply folded.

Jay’s side is more profitable—forty-six dollars—but also a thicker, more crumpled wad. It’s probably been weeks, maybe months, since he cleaned up the pile of junk he’s clearly been emptying from his pockets each night.

I have about a hundred dollars.

That won’t last long. But it’s a start.

I turn and Benson is waiting for me in the doorway. His eyes are concerned.

Of course they are. I just used my supernatural powers to incapacitate a grown woman and now am stealing things and running away like a crazy person.

I slide past him without looking and stuff the cash in the small pocket of my backpack. I look around my room, wondering what else to bring. Is it stealing to take the laptop they gave me? That seems worse than the money I just filched. But the computer technically is mine.

I pause. What if it’s bugged?

Not bugged exactly, but what if they can find me through it? You see that kind of stuff in crime shows all the time, and I honestly don’t know if that’s one of those “facts” they’ve grossly exaggerated or if it’s actually true.

Still.

Making a split decision, I grab it and shove it into my backpack, then yank the zippers closed before I can change my mind.