I giggle and hiccup, and that just makes me laugh and cry all at the same time. For a few minutes we sit, my face buried against Benson’s shoulder, his arms tight around me. “You must think I’m so stupid.”

“Nah,” he says, trying to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, but it’s still too short to stay. “People do irrational things for the people they love all the time.” He pauses, then adds in a whisper, “Really stupid things.” I look up when he stops speaking, but after a few seconds he squishes me a little harder.

I give him a sort-of smile, but I don’t really feel it. When I woke up this morning, curled unnaturally into the front seat with my knees braced against the steering wheel, every muscle in my body ached. On top of that, now I have a long scab across my face from a tree branch. My legs are sore from running and my arms from simply being terrified.

But it balances out the numbness that has enveloped me on the inside.

“You were right,” I whisper against the soft fabric of his jacket. “About Quinn, I mean. He’s—he’s dangerous and obsessed and … and … you were right.”

His hands are suddenly tight on my arms. “Did he hurt you?” he asks, eyes flashing fire. “Did he lay a single finger on you? I’ll kill the bastard!”

“No, no,” I say before he can get any louder. “I’m fine. I promise. I just …”

“Do we need to call the cops?”

I feel tears build as Quinn’s betrayal sweeps through me again, but I push them back—I will not shed another tear over him. “No. Technically he didn’t do anything. And I have nothing to tell them even if he did. His name’s not even Quinn. Everything he ever told me is a lie.”

“Tavia, seriously, did he hurt you?”

“He never touched me. He just led me to this old … cellar, I guess. It was kind of hidden.”

“A hidden cellar?” Benson asks, not exactly disbelieving, but there’s a hint of that.

I open my backpack and, after a quick look around, pull out the ancient journal.

An impressed whistle escapes Benson’s mouth as he reaches for the book. “You’re good,” he says, smiling in earnest now, and I feel a faint glow at his compliment. I crave his approval, though I’m not sure quite why. Maybe I just need someone to believe I’m not out of my mind.

Just psychic.

And magic.

And something called an Earthbound.

I’m so in over my head.

“This is seriously impressive.” Benson flips through the pages, and something clanks onto the table.

“Holy crap,” I say, picking up the gold coin. “I didn’t mean to take this.”

“Is that … ?” Benson’s eyes shoot up to mine.

“I think so.”

He holds it up, turning it and watching the light glint off it. “Is it really awful if we keep this?” he asks, his voice tense.

“I am not taking it back,” I say. “I’m never going there again.”

“Ten tanks of gas,” Benson says, pocketing the coin and turning his attention back to the journal. “So this was just sitting in there?”

“Whoa! Benson, look!” I close the journal, and on the front cover is a triangle, each side at least six inches long. “You can see that, right?” I ask, a little paranoid.

“Yeah,” Benson says quietly. “The triangle; I can see this one.”

I trace the small indentation with my finger, going around all three sides. A strange flicker crosses my vision and I see another hand following my fingers.

But I blink, and it’s gone.

Holding back a sigh at yet another disappearing image, I flip to the front of the journal. “Right before we went in, he called me Becca.”

“Rebecca Fielding,” Benson says softly, his eyes on the curly script. “1804.”

I skim the book in silence, Benson giving me peace. The darkness inside my chest spreads as I find more and more familiar words. “It’s all in here,” I say, paging carefully through the book, each new entry making the waffles I just ate feel heavier and heavier in my stomach. “Everything he ever said to me. Look, here she talks about how he had things to show her. Here he asks her to trust him. How he messed everything up and frightened her. And this part”—I point at the book—“this is the part I read last night. It’s word for word what he said to me. He’s obsessed with this dead Rebecca and trying to reenact his sick fantasies with modern-day girls. With … with me. But there could be others. He could be a freaking serial killer!”

A hard look is pasted on Benson’s face as he leans over the book. “This is so weird,” he says.

I flip back toward the beginning and a name catches my eye. “Benson!” I can feel all the blood draining from my face as I read the passage.

“What?” he asks, leaning over the page and looking where I’m pointing, his vague expression indicating that he doesn’t see what I’m so upset about.

“It says she first saw him when she was walking past his house, and he was minding his little sister.”

Benson is trying really hard, but his face is completely blank.

“There was a little girl with Quinn when I first saw him! In Portsmouth, a few days ago. Do … do you think he kidnapped her?” My heart is beating wildly as I wonder just how major of a psychopath I’ve run into.