“There’s no way,” Benson says. “I don’t know how he got that girl to play the part, but we’d have heard something on the news if a little girl was missing.”

It makes sense, and I try to latch onto Benson’s confidence to calm myself. “But the house was gone too,” I think aloud. “When I went back, it wasn’t there anymore. It wasn’t real. Maybe the little girl wasn’t real either.”

“Maybe this Quinn guy isn’t real,” Benson says, and there’s a low simmer of hostility in his tone.

“No,” I say dismissively, still focused on the words in the journal. “He talks to me. He got that door open in the dugout. He is definitely real.”

“The journal’s real too,” Benson says. “Not just physically real,” he adds, rapping a knuckle softly against the cover. “It appears to be authentic. Do you think Quinn just stumbled onto it somewhere?”

“I don’t know,” I admit in a small voice. “Honestly, I haven’t had the time or energy to think of anything except that I was a complete moron.”

“No,” Benson says, rubbing a hand on my arm. “People like this are always über-charismatic and nice and all that. I mean, come on, every time a serial killer gets caught, what do the neighbors say? Oh, he was such a nice guy.”

“You’re not making me feel better,” I mutter, laying my head down on the table.

“Point is, it’s not your fault he’s a creeper; it’s his.”

Mentally, I know it’s true, but I don’t feel that way.

“So … it looks like maybe Quinn has nothing to do with … the … the Earthbound thing?” he asks hesitantly.

I stare at him, uncomprehending for a moment. “Oh, right,” I say, feeling even more defeated. “The fact that I can create matter out of thin air just got bumped down to second on the list of drama in my life. Fabulous.” I clasp my hands in front of me. “But no. I think he’s like me, Benson. I think he can do what I can do. At the very least he knows about it.”

“You talked to him about it?”

“Sort of. Do you think he’s working with Sunglasses Guy?”

“Dragging you out somewhere alone in the middle of a snowy night and abandoning you? Whether he’s working for that guy or not, I think we can assume he is some seriously bad news, Tave.”

I let my head fall onto my arms. “No kidding,” I mutter. I feel like such a complete moron.

Benson rocks back and forth a few times. “Maybe we should look up Rebecca and the original Quinn. On microfiche.” Benson continues with an eyebrow raised, “Though considering the era, we’re likely to find more on Quinn than Rebecca.”

“Why?”

“Because he was a man,” Benson says dryly.

“True.”

He leans his head close over the table and grins. “Surely along with the chipper attitudes and polyester pants, we could find a library around here somewhere.”

I nod stoically. “Okay, let’s do it.”

He scoots out from the booth and holds out a hand for me. I wince as I stand, and Benson’s hands go to my waist. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks. “You look like you’re hurting.”

“I’ll heal,” I tell him. And I hope it’s true. My bruises will go away, but I can’t imagine ever losing this amazing but terrible compulsion I feel toward Quinn. I take one more look up at the television, where the reporter is still going on and on about the virus. She looks at the camera, her face so serious it borders on grave.

And then flickers.

I gasp aloud and Benson looks back at me.

Along with half the restaurant.

“Did you see that? She flickered.”

About ten heads turn to the TV.

“Were you watching?” I ask an older woman sitting close to me. “Did you see her flicker?”

“Well, sometimes the service isn’t perfect. But Flo gives us the television for free, so I don’t think you should be complaining.”

“Not the television, the woman. The reporter.” My head is screaming at me to keep my mouth shut—to avoid looking crazier than I am and, at the very least, to not make a scene. But now that I’ve started talking, I can’t seem to stop. “The woman, not the scene behind her, just the woman. She was gone for just a second. You didn’t see it?”

I look around me. Forget half, now everyone in the restaurant is staring.

“Tave, we gotta go.” Benson’s voice finally breaks through, and I duck my head and turn in the direction he’s leading me. He keeps one hand at my elbow and escorts me around to the car. “What was that?” he asks when we’re finally out of earshot.

“The reporter, she flickered. Just like the lady who gave me the Band-Aid and the guy at the candy store. No one sees it except me.”

Benson purses his lips and studies me for a long moment. “We need to get out of here. We have to assume that if Quinn knows we were in Camden last night, other people do too. We have to keep moving.”

I nod, not sure if Benson doesn’t believe me or if he’s just as bewildered as I am. “Can you drive for a bit?” I ask.

“Drive the Beemer again? I’m afraid you’re going to have to twist my arm,” he says, grinning.

I roll my eyes as we both get in. I guess I shouldn’t be surprise that even in the face of death and magic and mystery, boys still like their fancy cars.