Cuffs are slapped around my ankles, and a chain connects to the cuffs around my wrists. I’m jerked up from the ground. The cuffs are too tight and dig into my wrists. A black hood is pulled over my head and secured around my throat. I can’t see a thing. Two officers grab my elbows while another shoves me forward.

“You have the right to remain silent,” one of them begins as I’m led away, and I’m thrown into the back of a vehicle.

Chapter Twenty-Four

AFTER FIVE MINUTES, I GET UP OFF MY BED AND look in the wardrobe to see if there are any clothes I want to take with us. I’m holding a black sweater when I decide I can’t leave without saying good-bye to Héctor.

I rip another girl’s jacket from the wall, one with a hood, and write a quick note to Adelina: Had to say good-bye to someone in town first.

The double doors open into the chilly air, and once I see the police cars and news vans lining Calle Principal, I feel better. The Mogadorians wouldn’t try anything with so many witnesses. I walk through the gate with the hood over my head. The door to Héctor’s house is cracked open, and I knock softly on the door frame. “Héctor?”

A woman answers. “Hello?”

The door swings open and it’s Héctor’s mother, Carlotta. Her black-and-gray hair is pinned carefully around her head, and her face is pink and smiling. She’s wearing a beautiful red dress and a blue apron. The house smells like cake.

“Is Héctor home, Señora Ricardo?” I ask.

“My angel,” she says. “My angel has returned.”

She remembers what I did for her, how I cured her disease. I feel embarrassed by the way she’s looking at me, but she bends down for a hug and I can’t resist. “My angel has returned,” she says again.

“I’m so happy you’re feeling better, Señora Ricardo.”

The tears that fall from her eyes are almost too much, and soon my own eyes swell with water. “You’re welcome,” I whisper. There’s a meow behind Carlotta, and I lean over to see Legacy trotting towards me from the kitchen with milk dripping from his chin. He purrs against my shins and I bend down to pet his coat.

“When did you get a cat?” I ask.

“This morning he comes to my door, and I think he is so sweet. I’ve named him Feo.”

“It’s good to see you, Feo.”

“He’s a good cat,” she says, her hands now on her hips. “Very hungry boy.”

“I’m so glad you two found each other. Carlotta, I’m very sorry but I have to leave. I need to speak with Héctor. Is he home?”

“He’s at the café,” she says. The disappointment of Héctor drinking so early in the morning must be evident on my face, because Carlotta adds, “Only coffee now. He’s drinking coffee.”

I hug her good-bye and she kisses both of my cheeks.

The café is packed. I reach for the door, but just before I pull it open, something stops me dead in my tracks: Héctor’s sitting at a small table, but I notice him only in my periphery. My eyes are glued to who’s sitting in the chair opposite him—the Mogadorian from last night. He’s now clean shaven, and his black hair has been lightened to a chestnut color, but there’s no mistaking him. He’s just as tall and muscular as before, just as broad shouldered, just as dark and brooding, with the same heavy brows. I don’t need the killer’s description to know he matches it perfectly, with or without the dyed hair or missing mustache.

I let go of the door and step backwards. Oh Héctor, I think. How could you?

My legs shake; my heart pounds. As I’m standing there watching them, the Mogadorian turns and sees me at the window. My flesh turns cold. The world seems to stop; I’m stuck, rooted in place, incapable of moving a muscle. The Mogadorian watches me, causing Héctor to turn my way as well, and it’s only upon seeing his face that I’m shocked into action.

I stumble backwards then, turn and run, but before I’ve made it far, I hear the café door open. I don’t turn around. If the Mogadorian is following me, I don’t want to know.

“Marina!” Héctor yells. “Marina!”

Four officers ride with me. I touch my fingertips to the heavy chains. I’m certain I could break them if I wanted to, or I could simply unlock the cuffs with telekinesis; but the thought of Sarah empties me of the energy required for such an undertaking. She couldn’t have turned me in. Please don’t let it have been her.

The first drive takes twenty minutes, and I have no idea where we are. I’m pulled out and shoved into a second vehicle which I assume is more secure, meant for longer transport. The second drive takes forever—two hours, maybe three—and by the time we finally stop and I’m again jerked out, the sickness over what Sarah may have done has grown to the point that it’s nearly unbearable.

I’m guided into a building. After each turn I have to wait for a door to be unlocked. I count four of them, and the air changes with each new corridor, becoming staler the farther I’m led. Finally I’m pushed into a cell.

“Sit,” one of them orders.

I sit on a bed. The hood is removed but the shackles remain. Four officers exit and slam the door shut. The two larger ones take seats outside my cell, while the other two leave.

The cell is small, ten feet by ten feet, and contains the bed I’m sitting on, covered in yellow stains, and a metal toilet and sink. Nothing else. Three of its four walls are solid concrete, and there’s a small window at the very top of the back wall.

Despite the filthy mattress, I lie down, close my eyes, and wait for my mind to slow down.

“John!” Sam’s voice yells out.

My eyes snap open. I rush to the front of the cell, grabbing hold of the bars. “Right here,” I yell back.

“Shut up!” the larger of the two guards yells, pointing his nightstick at me. Down the corridor, somebody yells at Sam, too. He doesn’t say anything else, but at least I know he’s close.

I reach my hand through the bars of my cell and press my palm against the flat metal surface of the lock. I close my eyes, focus my telekinesis to feel its inner workings, and yet I feel nothing other than a vibration that hurts my head the harder I concentrate.

The cell—it’s electronically controlled. I can’t open it with telekinesis.

I run as fast as I can back to the orphanage, the hood ballooning with air behind me, and as I gain speed the clouds and blue sky above me melt into a bright white.

I burst through the double doors and run to the sleeping quarters. Adelina’s sitting on my bed, the note folded on her lap. A small suitcase sits at her feet. When she sees me, she jumps up and hugs me.

“You have to look at this,” she says, handing me the paper. I unfold it to see that it’s not my note after all but a photocopied picture.

It takes me a second to realize what the picture is of, and when I recognize it my heart sinks. Someone has burned an enormous and intricate symbol into the side of a nearby mountain. With its careful lines and sharp angles, it’s an exact replica of the scars around my ankle.

The sheet falls from my hand and slowly floats to the ground.

“That was found yesterday, and the police are handing these copies out looking for information,” Adelina says. “We have to go now.”

“Yes, absolutely. I need to talk to you about Ella first,” I say.

Adelina tilts her head. “What about Ella?”

“I want her to come with—”

Before I can finish my sentence, I’m rocked off my feet by a thundering crash. Adelina falls as well and slams her shoulder into the ground. There’s been an explosion, somewhere within the orphanage. Several girls run into the room screaming; others run past the doorway looking for refuge elsewhere. I hear Sister Dora yell for everyone to go to the south wing.

Adelina and I get to our feet and head for the hallway, but then another explosion hits, and suddenly I can feel cold wind. I can’t hear what Adelina is saying above the screams, but I follow her gaze to the roof, where there’s now a jagged hole the size of a bus. As I’m staring, a tall man in a trench coat with long red hair walks to the edge of the hole. He points at me.

Chapter Twenty-Five

THE INTERROGATION ROOM IS WARM AND PITCHBLACK. I rest my head on the table in front of me and try not to fall asleep; but after being up all night, I can’t help myself. Instantly, I feel a vision forming and hear the whispers. I feel myself floating up through the darkness, then, as if shot through a cannon, I blaze through a shadowy tunnel. Black turns to blue. Blue turns to green. The whispers follow me, growing weaker the farther down the tunnel I go. Suddenly, I’m jolted to a stop and everything falls silent. A gust of wind appears with a bright light, and when I look down, I realize I’m standing on the snowy peak of a mountain.

The view is spectacular, with mountains stretching for miles. There’s a deep green valley below me and a crystal blue lake. I’m drawn to the lake and begin descending when I see tiny bursts of light surrounding it. As if I’m wearing binoculars, my vision is suddenly magnified and I see hundreds of heavily armed Mogadorians shooting at four running figures.

My anger is immediate and colors blur as I run down the mountain. A few hundred yards from the lake, the sky growls above me with a black wall of clouds. Bolts of lightning crash into the valley and thunder roars. I’m knocked off my feet as lightning strikes all around me, and that’s when I see the glowing eye form and stare down from the clouds.

“Six!” I yell, but the thunder drowns me out. I know it’s her, but what is she doing here?

The clouds part, and someone drops into the valley. My vision magnifies again, and I see that I was right: Six stands furious between the advancing army of Mogs and two young girls and two older men. Her arms are above her head, and a steady sheet of rain falls.

“Six!” I yell again, and a pair of hands grabs my shoulders from behind.

My eyes snap open and I whip my head off the table. The lights in the interrogation room are on, and there’s a tall man with a round face standing above me. He’s wearing a dark suit with a badge clipped to his belt. In his hands is the white tablet.

“Chill out, kid. I’m Detective Will Murphy, FBI. How we doing today?”

“Never better,” I reply, dazed by the vision. Who was Six protecting?

“Good,” he says. The detective sits, a pen and legal pad in front of him. He carefully displays the tablet on the left side of the table.

“So,” he begins, slowly drawing it out. “Six what? What do you have six of?”

“What?”

“You were yelling the number six in your sleep. You want to tell me what that’s all about?”

“It’s my golf handicap,” I say. My mind tries to conjure up the faces of the two girls behind Six in the valley, but they’re fuzzy.

Detective Murphy chuckles. “Yeah, right. How about you and me have a little chat? Let’s start with the birth certificate you gave to Paradise High. It’s counterfeit, John Smith. In fact, we can’t find a single thing about you prior to you showing up in Paradise several months ago,” he says, squinting as though expecting some reply. “Your social security number belongs to a dead man in Florida.”