This time Benson nods. “I can see that. Does he say anything else in there?”

“It’s hard to make it out,” I say, not bothering to hide my disappointment. “I’ve only figured out that one bit about the two groups.” I chuckle morosely. “I’m just making the rest of this stuff up.”

“And you’re sure Quinn didn’t die in that cabin?” Benson asks as he crumples up our trash.

“No. They were supposed to,” I say, wrenching my attention away from the journal—what little there is of it. “But … they escaped.” An ache starts as I try to think about that, but it’s not so overwhelming now that I’ve eaten.

“How do you know?”

“It’s like remembering a movie you watched a long time ago. You remember the basics, but not all the details. And the more I try to remember, the harder it is.”

“Maybe Quinn is trying to speak through you and that painting was, like, some kind of supernatural gateway.”

I raise my eyebrow at him. “He picked some random, totally broken teenage girl to communicate through?”

“Not random,” Benson insists. “Another Earthbound. Like him. Maybe that’s the only way it works.”

I consider that and it makes a horrible sense. I admit, I don’t want to be an Earthbound—whatever that really means. I don’t want to be special. But if Quinn chose me, there must be something I can do for him. “I think we need to go to the house, Quinn’s house, the one from the newspaper article.”

“Problem. We don’t know where—”

“I do,” I whisper, realization dawning, “I know where it is.”

Benson peers at the clock on the dash, his skepticism unconcealed. “It’s too late to go now, and honestly, I don’t think you’re in any condition to do anything.”

I nod wearily. “Tomorrow, maybe?”

His brow furrows in concentration. “If you want.”

A contented drowsiness is starting to overtake me. “I do. I have to—to figure this out.”

“I know,” Benson says with a loud sigh, and it strikes me as an odd answer, but he’s probably exhausted too.

“We should find a place to sleep; I’m going to pass out soon.”

A smile crosses his face now. “Your wish is my command.” He checks the rearview, then pulls out. “Go to sleep,” he says as he scans the sparse traffic. “It’ll take about twenty minutes.”

“Where are we going?”

“Just sleep. It’s a surprise.”

I feel like I’ve scarcely closed my eyes before Benson is nudging me.

“We’re here.”

I don’t understand why he’s waking me up just to let me know it’s time to sleep until my fatigue-heavy eyes catch the light.

I’ve never been so happy to see a simple Holiday Inn. “Are we staying here?” I ask, practically pushing my nose up against the window.

“No,” Benson says. “I just drove you here to tempt you with a real shower. We can leave now.”

This time, his shoulder gets a punch, but my brain has a death grip on the words real shower.

I grab my backpack—feeling a little guilty that I’m the only one who has a clean change of clothes—and scan the items in the trunk, trying to decide what’s most important. “The journals,” I finally decide. “I need to bring them in. I have to read them.” My brain is still fuzzy, and that’s as far as I get before Benson scoops them up.

“Let’s just get inside. I don’t want anyone to see you.”

“It’ll be fine,” I say, as though the words would make it so. “Where are we?”

“Freeport. It’s about sixty miles from Camden, but it’s a town we haven’t been to yet. I’m trying to keep us safe,” he finishes in a mumble.

“You’re doing great,” I say, glad he’s being careful. Whoever’s following us is smart and persistent, and as much as I generally admire both those qualities, I like them much less when they’re working to make me … dead. As we cross the parking lot, I step a little closer to Benson, letting my shoulder brush his. “You’re my Superman.” I reach up and tap his glasses. “Specs and all.”

“I’m no hero,” he says softly.

Feeling bold, I reach down and slip my hand into his instead, entwining our fingers. “You’re my hero.”

He squeezes my hand and unlocks the door, and I try not to feel fluttery about the fact that I’m going into a hotel room. Alone. With Benson.

“Why don’t you go ahead and shower,” Benson says, hovering in the doorway, probably having just come to the same realization I did. “I need to go sell some more of this gold.”

“Now?” I ask, the panic of him leaving way worse than the similar panic of him staying.

“I’d rather go at night when the car is less likely to be recognized,” he says, looking down at the carpet. “I saw a pawnshop on the way into town—had one of those ‘we buy gold’ signs. If I get it done tonight, tomorrow we can just take off.”

His shyness is oddly emboldening, and I step forward and rest my hands on his hips. “I wish we could just take off now.”

“Me too,” he says, barely loud enough to hear. He hesitates and then draws his head a little closer to mine. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own for an hour or so?” he whispers.