For …

Two hundred years. My mind forces me to complete the thought.

“He never touched me,” I say, looking at Benson with wide eyes.

Benson says nothing but he’s studying me with a grim expression that says he knows it makes sense.

“All those times—even when we talked—he never touched me.” My chin jerks up. “Am I a psychic now?”

“Like a medium? Maybe.”

“Benson, the fact is that I see things that other people don’t see. All the time. I can’t deny that anymore.”

Benson nods, but says nothing.

“Do you think this is because of my surgery?”

“Your brain surgery?”

“Yeah. When I was in the hospital, I found this wacko website that suggested that trauma to the brain could give you paranormal abilities. I thought it was stupid at the time, but now?” I spread my hands out helplessly.

Benson pushes his glasses higher on his nose. “It doesn’t sound very likely to me. But what do I know? Nothing, apparently.”

Something doesn’t fit. “Except …” I say, the idea gelling even as I speak. “It couldn’t have been totally triggered by my brain injury. Reese and Elizabeth got me on that plane. They were expecting something like this to happen. You can’t just predict that anyone who has brain trauma is suddenly going to turn into … I don’t know, an X-Man or something.”

“I wish I knew what they know,” Benson says with a sigh.

“Me too.” I sink down onto a moss-covered stump.

Two weeks ago I was a regular old sole-survivor-of-a-plane-wreck orphan being hidden from the media. Today? I don’t even know what I am.

“Elizabeth called me an Earthbound,” I say after a while. “What do you think that means?”

Benson stares at me blankly. “I don’t know,” he says.

“It all comes back to Quinn Avery,” I finally say. “The old one, I mean. Everything. I think …” I don’t even want to say it. “I think I need to go see that place he took me to again.”

“You said you’d never go back there …” Benson answers, a spark in his eye betraying his interest.

“I know, but I think maybe that’s what we’re going to have to do to figure all of this out.”

Benson nods thoughtfully. “If Quinn had any answers, it makes sense that that’s where they’d be.”

“I don’t want to go alone. Will you come?”

“Of course,” Benson says, and there’s a ripple of excitement in his voice.

The place scares the bejesus out of me, but I guess it’s kind of a grown-up field trip to him.

“Sun’s going to set in about an hour, but I can pick up a flashlight in Camden,” he says, then flushes. “I stopped in some town we passed through while you were sleeping and sold the gold coin. I hope you don’t mind; we were out of gas money.”

I wave his worries away. “That’s what it’s for.”

He nods and drapes his arm lightly around me as we head back to the car. I have no clue how an over-two-hundred-years-dead guy—I cringe at the thought—is going to help us, but everything revolves around him. There must be a connection.

Besides, the irrational part of me is desperate to find out more about Quinn. It doesn’t matter that he’s dead—that he might have been a ghost all along—he’s still the one with the answers.

I steer the car away from the shaded clearing and Benson helps me get oriented on the right highway. Once I set the cruise control, he squeezes my hand before releasing it and opening Rebecca’s journal, leafing through the beautifully scripted pages. “Have you had a chance to read any more of this?” he asks.

“Since this morning? When would I have done that?” I drawl. “Before or after I eluded my assassin?”

Benson is flipping pages—slowly, but not slowly enough to really be reading much.

“Look at this,” he says, tilting the journal toward me.

“Benson, I’m driving. Read it to me.”

“I can’t. It’s code.”

“Code? Really?” And I chance a look over, but the tiny, perfect cursive is too small to make out.

“Not actual code, I think. More like another language, but I don’t recognize it. It’s kind of Latin-ish, but not exactly. Maybe an old form of a different Romantic language?”

“Great,” I say, my heart sinking a little. “A different language and in 1800s speech.”

“It goes like that for the rest of the entries, it looks like,” he says, flipping until he reaches blank pages. “The weird language and a whole bunch of drawings.”

“What happens right before the change?” I ask, forcing myself to concentrate on the road.

Benson goes back and turns pages more slowly. “It’s all about Quinn. How in love she is. How he has things to show her, just like he told you.”

I cringe at the memory, especially now that Benson and I are … what exactly are we, if Quinn is out of the picture?

Well, physically.

Sadly, he’s still very much haunting us.

“Let’s see, she’s supposed to meet him. It’s a secret. She thinks he’s going to propose.” He turns to the next page. “Then that strange language. I wonder …”

“What?” I ask when he pulls out his phone but doesn’t finish his sentence.