A hint of movement.

Quinn?

I don’t know, but I’m on my feet and running again before my mind can process whatever my eyes did or didn’t see.

Finally I reach the road where we parked the car. Every muscle in my body hurts, and my hands are so numb they can hardly grip the keys as I dig them out of my pocket. I throw the door open and crash into the driver’s seat, my finger instantly pushing the lock button. I’m still fumbling the keys into the ignition when Benson’s voice reaches my ears.

“What’s wrong?” he demands, not sounding particularly sleepy. “What happened?”

“Quinn found me; we’re leaving.”

“Quinn? But you”—he hesitates, then adds in a small voice—“you came here because of Quinn; you … you like him.”

“Not anymore,” I say, but the pain in my chest calls me a liar.

My lungs burn and my leg muscles complain as I press on the gas pedal, forcing myself to stay within the speed limit, grateful to be alive.

I should never have come to Camden. I’m so stupid. Quinn’s never been trustworthy—never given me the time of day. Why did I think this time would be different?

My entire body is filled with the deepest, most mournful sorrow I’ve ever experienced. Somehow worse even than the moment I realized my parents were dead. The world swirls around me and I want to scream, to curse the universe for taking him from me, just as I was getting a taste.

I want to cry, but I’m past the point.

He’s gone.

I’m alone.

And a part of my heart I never knew shatters.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I focus on the news on the television the next morning. Anything to keep from looking at Benson. There are more victims of the mystery virus—these ones in a small town in Texas. It makes me think of Jay. Mark. Whatever the hell his name actually is. I wonder briefly if he really was working on the virus or if that was a lie too.

“We can find no connection between the victims or their towns. No common threads whatsoever,” the reporter says, staring into the camera like this is the most important story in history.

Who knows, maybe it is.

I flinch as the chime on the front door dings, and I try to turn and look without being too obvious. Just some guy in Wranglers. His eyes drift by me before his face lights up and he waves at a woman waiting in a booth.

I let myself breathe again.

“Okay. I’m done,” Benson says, smacking his hand down on the table.

I jump at the noise, nearly spilling my tea.

“Tave,” Benson says, softer now. Probably because everyone in the dinky little restaurant is looking at us. Waitresses included. The whole restaurant is way too intimate for my taste—it’s like one of those diners you see in old movies, the tables so close together that you can just turn your head and join in someone else’s conversation.

Which I have no doubt happens frequently.

I’m not sure what town we’re in. Last night I just drove until I felt safe. Not safe, but safe enough to sleep.

For a little while. As much as one can in wet jeans.

Benson didn’t ask questions, but I had the sinking feeling he hadn’t actually slept much while I was gone.

And judging by the shifting of our bodies once I found a new place to park, neither of us slept much in the wee hours of the morning, either.

When the sun came up, I could see I had brought us to another oldish town like Camden—a throwback to the fifties with the addition of smart phones. I think they do it on purpose, actually—bright storefronts, rocking chairs in front of the shops. I even saw a guy sweeping his sidewalk.

The people here look set in their ways, and I bet most of them don’t even have to order their breakfast anymore. My regular, Flo, I can hear them saying in my head. And she just nods and brings it out because the cook already had it made.

“Please, talk to me.” Benson reaches for my hand.

I flinch away before my weary mind comes back to the present.

“I haven’t pushed; I’ve tried to give you space. I haven’t asked any of the million questions I have about everything we learned yesterday. But you brought us out to Camden, and don’t try to tell me that was some random decision,” he says, cutting off a protest I didn’t even have the energy to make. “I know it had something to do with Quinn. So I waited; I trusted that you had a reason not to tell me. Then you snuck off in the middle of the night under the pretense of a bathroom break and came back two hours later—yes, I noticed and worried about you every second since by the time I realized you were not, in fact, peeing, I couldn’t follow you—covered in snow and half frozen and said you found Quinn and you don’t like him anymore—which, just so you know, I’m totally in support of—and proceeded to drive like a crazy person for two hours and then conk out in the front seat in some waffle place parking lot in the middle of nowhere without saying a word. Talk, Maple Bar.”

I have to smile a little at his pastry nickname.

“There we go,” he whispers, touching my bottom lip. “Come on. You’ll feel better if you tell me.” I feel his fingertip rub under my eye, and it’s the first time I notice there are tears rolling down my cheeks.

Benson hesitates for a moment, then scoots off the bench and comes over to my side of the booth and wraps both arms around me, squeezing me tight against him.

“Go ahead, cry it out. My shirt needs to be washed anyway.”