“I’m putting it into Google translate to see if anything comes up.”

“God bless Google,” I murmur sardonically.

“That’s weird,” he says after a few minutes.

“What?”

“Well, it is Latin. Sort of. It’s close to Latin. Google isn’t translating everything because most of the words are spelled wrong.”

“Do you think there’s any way we can translate the whole thing?”

“Maybe. I can figure out some of the roots of the words that are misspelled, but”—he looks up at me—“it’s going to take a really long time to even get the gist of it.”

“What have we got if not time?” I reply quietly.

But it’s a blatant lie.

Ever since the car almost hit me, it’s like I’ve been hearing a clock ticking down in my head.

And I’m not sure what’s going to happen when it reaches zero.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The door’s still ajar. Just how I left it.

“See?” Benson says when I point that out. “He’s totally a ghost. Can’t touch anything.”

“Whatever,” I say, not wanting to encourage him. Benson’s insufferable when he knows he’s right.

And he usually is.

But I love that about him.

Love? I try not to dwell on that.

“Do you think anyone else has been here?” I ask, my voice a hushed whisper—as though we were encroaching on sacred ground.

“No footprints,” Benson notes. “And it stopped snowing in the middle of the night last night. So unless they snuck in right after you left, I suspect we’re safe.”

“We’re not staying long,” I say, pulling my coat a little closer.

“No arguments here,” Benson says dryly.

I start to slip through the open doorway, but Benson stops me and examines the locking mechanism instead. “This is seriously brilliant,” he says when I explain how it works. “It’s like a combination lock. This Quinn guy is—was—smart.”

I blush. Why does it feel like he’s complimenting me?

Reaching into a messenger bag hanging from his shoulder, Benson pulls out the huge Mag flashlight we acquired half an hour ago. So much better than my lame cell phone light.

The cell phone that’s eighty miles away, in pieces on a sidewalk. Probably smashed by a brick as well. That tiny, simple thought makes me feel less afraid, if only a bit.

The dank smell hits me as soon as we enter the small burrow. With it come memories of last night in startling clarity–Quinn’s face close to mine, not looking ghostly in the least. “Hey, aren’t ghosts supposed to be see-through?” I ask as Benson shines the flashlight around.

“I don’t think anyone knows that for sure.”

“He looked so real,” I say, and I’m a little embarrassed by the longing in my voice.

“Come over here,” Benson says with a wave, beckoning me to the table where I found the journal.

“Paintings,” I breathe as he turns over a few curling bits of paper. “I didn’t really explore when I came down here last night.” The paintings are small, casual watercolors of Quinn as I’ve never seen him before; smiling up at the artist, his hair loose and tousled, looking into a fire in a cozy hearth in contemplation. My breath catches as Benson turns over the last one.

Quinn with a woman.

It portrays the two of them from the back, walking hand in hand. I can’t see her face, just a tall, slim form and brown hair bound into a braid. A roiling possessiveness that makes no sense whatsoever rolls over me, filling me with an odd hostility that makes me sick to my stomach.

“Rebecca?” Benson suggests from over my shoulder.

I swallow hard and answer in a weak voice, “Probably.” I’ve never understood what it means to truly hate someone, but as I stare at that painting, my fingers gripping the corners so hard they’re turning white, I think this must be what it feels like.

“Holy crap!” Benson holds up a dirty coin and blows some dust from it. “There’s a bunch of them.”

“Take ’em,” I say. “I think Quinn owes me that much for blowing my life all to pieces.”

While Benson’s trying to decide how much this cavern is worth, I start poking around. “Think we can use your flashlight to smash into these crates?” I ask.

“Why don’t you just make a crowbar?” Benson suggests.

I suck in a breath. I don’t want to. It feels superstitious, but every time I use my powers, something bad happens. But what else am I supposed to do? Ask Benson to tear the lid off with his bare hands?

My fingers shake as I hold up my hand and picture the tool in my head. An instant later I’m holding a rather short crowbar. I avert my eyes as Benson takes it from me. After that it’s a matter of seconds before he’s pried the lid off.

We both drop to our knees to peer into the box.

“Sweet,” Benson says, lifting a heavy pouch that jingles with the clink of metal. A quick look inside and he whistles. “Damn, this Quinn guy was seriously loaded.”

“Give me that,” I scold, snatching it away. “We’re not grave-robbing.”

“This is not a grave,” Benson says. “And that pouch has got to be worth five figures. At least.” He grins. “Think about how much gas and trail mix that is.”

I glare at him and put it on the ground beside me.