In the dark.

Anything could have happened. And what’s worse, I knew it. And I went anyway.

But that hotel room. That car. I don’t think I understood until now just how vicious the people after us could be. The night I went off with Quinn, it could have been Benson burned to a crisp.

He could have died because I left him.

As that thought sinks in, holding his hand isn’t enough. I loop my arm around his, hugging it against my chest with my head resting lightly on his shoulder while he drives, needing to feel the warmth of his skin, the sound of his breathing, the faint beating of his heart. All signs that he’s still alive.

That he’s still mine.

And I promise in my mind that I will never let these people take him away.

I just wish I had a better idea of who these people are. Or, at the very least, who specifically pulled the job at the hotel. Sadly, I have several options. Reese and Jay—but I don’t believe they’d do something like this. Violence like this seems more like a Sunglasses Guy thing. But who does he work for? The Reduciata? This whole thing would be a hell of a lot easier if I knew who I was actually running from.

We’re about five miles from Camden when a pit forms in my stomach. Revisiting a town we’ve already been to twice seems more than a little dangerous, even though we’re not going to the exact same place. In a town as tiny as Camden, going to Quinn’s house versus his hideaway isn’t much of a difference. Whoever’s tracking us has to know we stopped here yesterday before proceeding on to the Holiday Inn. It’s likely they know about the first time we stopped here too. I have visions of them lying in wait, guns in hand, and it doesn’t seem very fantastical.

“You ready?” Benson asks as the sign welcoming us to Camden comes into sight.

I don’t know if I’m more afraid of what might be waiting for us … or that nothing will be. No house, no answers, not even any clues. If I don’t find some answers here, I’m not sure we’ll have the resources to survive until tomorrow. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

In a few minutes we’re turning down a street just outside Camden, and I feel my chest finally start to relax as the buildings grow sparse. Fewer places for an assassin to hide. I’d like just one day to go by without someone trying to kill me. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask.

We’re on crumbly county roads now and there’s forest on both sides. “There should be a turn coming up soon,” I say, leaning forward and searching for it.

Benson points to a faint dirt road that speaks of decades of neglect, and the car bumps off the pavement. He grins. “Glad you’re not a serial killer,” he says, leaning to nudge his shoulder against mine. “Because this would be an awesome place to ditch a body.”

Thank you for that visual, I think, knowing the comment was supposed to lighten the mood. Somehow, it only made everything feel more serious. More dangerous. “At least we haven’t seen anyone following us,” I manage in response. I can feel the house approaching us instead of the other way around. “It’s coming up,” I say, peering into the trees. I catch sight of a barely there path that isn’t nearly wide enough for even a compact car and point it out.

“Time to hoof it?” Benson asks, and I nod, though no words come out. My throat is frozen.

In a complete turnaround from last night, the sun is out in full force today, melting all the snow it dumped on us two nights ago. I’d like to take it as a good omen, but really, it’s yet another sign of how screwed up the world is.

The path is muddy and slick with wet grass, and baby leaves drip water droplets onto our heads when we disturb them. But we don’t have far to go; the path ends at what I know used to be a white-picket fence. There’s nothing left of it, though.

It, or the house.

Disappointment surges through me. It was foolish to think Quinn’s house would still be here, looking just like the painting. I pick my way across years of fallen leaves, reminding myself that two centuries is a long time. My eyes follow the path to the house that’s invisible except in the memory that feels as much mine as Quinn’s.

I step closer to where the house used to be.

It’s almost nothing now—a broken outline of what might have once been a foundation, covered in green moss. There’s a pile of old stones that hints at a fireplace on the north side, but it could just as easily be a heap of rocks some kids made twenty years ago. My toes find the edge of a stone barrier that’s more or less straight and I follow it carefully, hoping that it’ll give me some insight into the structure that existed here so long ago. It’s only when it turns a third corner that I’m sure this was, in fact, the foundation.

“Wow,” Benson whispers when I reach him again, coming to the same conclusion. “This is really it.”

It is.

I can feel it.

It’s the familiarity I expected to feel in Camden. And now I understand—it’s not the city, it’s here. This place. This is where Quinn meant for me to come.

As though hearing his name in my thoughts, Quinn’s presence resonates within me, filling my soul with a silent music like the vibrations of an enormous bell. My backpack slides from my shoulders as I stand before what would have been the front of the house. It wasn’t large—not that homes in that era ever were. But big enough for one.

Two, my mind whispers, and I nearly hiss aloud in jealousy as I push the thought away. Why am I jealous? I don’t want Quinn! He’s not even real!