Benson is on his knees, his face shielded behind the headrest, poking out to get a better look as I crazily whirl around the corner. “It’s the guy from the library!” Benson yells.

“How did he find us?” I ask as I squeal the tires around another corner. “We’re miles away!”

“I don’t know. He must have … I don’t know, tracked me to your house?” He sits back in his seat, buckling in. I don’t blame him.

I take the first two turns I see—one right, one left—and hope for no dead ends.

“He may be on foot, but he’s cutting through all the yards. We gotta get out of this neighborhood.”

I nod and look for a good outlet.

“This guy needs to run a marathon or something. He is fast.”

“I’m faster,” I say, finally pulling onto a busy street and flooring the gas.

A minute later, Benson casts one more look over his shoulder. “He’s totally out of sight now,” he says, buckling his seatbelt again. “I’m pretty sure he got a damn good look at the car, though.”

“So spilling coffee on him wasn’t as effective as we’d hoped?” I joke, tossing one more mock-condescending look at him. Something—maybe the adrenaline—has given me both my nerve and my sense of humor back. Or maybe it’s just what happens when you’re behind the wheel of such a nice car.

“Guess not.” Benson gives me a hint of a smirk, but he’s the one who looks nervous now.

I’ve figured out where I am and take one more right, heading toward the interstate. “Last chance,” I say as I pull to a stop at a red light less than half a mile from the freeway entrance. “This is real, Benson. And if you come with me, there’s no turning back.”

“There’s already no turning back,” he says, staring studiously out the front windshield.

“Benson?” I ask as we approach the 95. “Do you know where Camden is?” Tiny detail.

“Camden, Maine?”

“Is there another Camden?”

“Not that I know of. Not around here anyway.”

“Then yes, that one.”

“Yeah, it’s this cool old town … probably five or six hours from here. East. Well, northeast. Along the coastline.”

Perfect. “Let’s start there,” I say, clicking on the right-turn signal.

“How come?”

Tell no one. The words sound in my head as if Quinn was sitting in the backseat screaming them. “Just a hunch.”

“They headed east,” he says, standing in front of my desk. The one I despise.

I look up into my own reflection, fish-eyed in the dark glass. “Take those off; I hate when I can’t see your eyes,” I say sharply. As sharply as I can in a whisper.

He removes his sunglasses sheepishly. A sheep, I think acerbically. That’s exactly what he is. It’s what most of these humans are. Not that it’s really their fault. It’s what we always wanted them to be.

“Did you get a couple shots in?” I ask once his eyes are visible.

“Any more and I might have actually hit her.”

I smile, just a little. “Perfect,” I say. “Scared and on the run. Just the way I like her.”

“Should I move my guys in?”

“Not yet,” I say, picturing her in my mind. Panicking. Doing everything wrong. Acting like the human she still thinks she is. “Stay close—watch her.” I lift one eyebrow. “Don’t you want to see what happens next?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I’m not sure why I’m not telling Benson the truth about where we’re going. Why we’re going there—aversion to drama, maybe. I hardly need the guy I’m kissing to spend hours in my stolen car driving to the guy my heart can’t leave alone. Awkward silence much?

Instead, we talk about anything and everything except the last week and Benson does a good job of distracting me when I lapse into silence for too long. When I’m quiet, my mind races, and I can’t help wondering who—or what—I really am.

Part of me is actually relieved—relieved that Elizabeth showed up with a gun, relieved that Sunglasses Guy tried to kill me—because it means I’m not crazy. On the other hand, today I put my therapist and guardian in chains and stole a car to get away from them. There’s something inside me that knows how to do that. Something I don’t understand—a person I don’t know. It makes me question everything—my life, myself, my memories. How much of my life has been a lie? Am I a lie?

But a light touch of Benson’s fingers against my hand, a lame joke, pointing out a funny billboard—those pull me back into the now. Once I get out of this car, I’ll have to think about the disaster of my life. But until then, Benson and I laugh, and talk, and tease, wrapped up in a small, four-door-sedan world of our own.

Due to construction and traffic, five or six hours turn into eight. Every time we have to slow down, I find myself drumming my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. Benson’s been keeping a watch out the back windshield and, as far as we can tell, no one’s tailing us. With that worry at least temporarily assuaged, all I can think of is getting there.

Camden means Quinn.

And Quinn means answers.

I’m not sure which one I’m more anxious for. I can’t give up the idea of being with Quinn despite the last two days with Benson. Quinn makes me feel alive in a way I haven’t experienced since the plane crash, like a part of me has lain dormant and only he can bring it back into existence.