“You talked. I mean, when you were out. I asked you questions, and you answered them.”
I glare suspiciously at him. “You should know I lie all the time.” Most people lie with words; I lie with my whole body. I lie with my thoughts and my emotions; I lie with everything that makes me who I am. I’m the best liar in the whole entire world. I hope I lied to him, whatever he asked. “What did I say?”
“Have you really killed three people?”
Tap tap tap I need to tap tap tap I need to get out of this car. I can’t breathe. “Why didn’t you stop at a hospital?”
“I know why I’m in the middle of this.”
Why is he still talking to me? He should be scared, he should get away from me. “Oh?”
“My research. What I’ve been working on. I told you it was with MRI and tracking chemicals in the body to examine brain disorders, right? What I didn’t tell you is there’s a very specific focus. I’m mapping the brain functions of people who claim to have psychic abilities. It started as a focus inspired by this crazy aunt on my mom’s side, more to disprove it than anything else, but, well, there were patterns. Specific areas of the brain more active than others, certain chemical markers present. Only in women. So I was going to expand it—start gathering information on huge segments of the population to see if I could find the same patterns in women who don’t claim to be psychic.”
I close my eyes, rest my head against the window. If they had that information, if they could access medical records and find women without depending on sketchy news reports or rumors or the muddled visions of their Seers, they could find all of them. No one would be safe.
“They shouldn’t want to kill you,” I whisper. “You’re their dream come true.” And now I know I have to keep him hidden no matter what, because if Keane knew, if Keane got him…
“I’d really like to look at your brain,” Adam says.
I snort. “That has got to be the weirdest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“I mean, in an MRI. I’d like to run some tests. On you and on Annie, if I can, if she’s really psychic like you say she is. What is it you can do, again? I wasn’t clear on it.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I see why it has that messy look. “I’m not really clear on any of this, honestly. I was still viewing it as a specific set of mental disorders that we could actually see in a scan. But if it’s all true…”
“It’s all true. Promise. And there’s nothing special about my brain. If you scanned it, you’d probably see a swirling black mass.” I close my eyes and imagine my brain. It’d be dark, all of it, black and red with bright shining spots you’d want to cling to, but all they’d do is illuminate things I never want to see again. My brain scan would give him nightmares.
“But you said you had perfect instincts.”
“I’m nobody. I’m collateral damage with a lot of training.” Chicago looms up ahead of us, old buildings and new buildings and cars and trees and lake, and I am so tired and my arm hurts so much and I have to go home and somehow keep my thoughts and emotions safely hidden.
No problem.
“As soon as we get into the city, pull over and get out. You can take the cash in my purse. Let me see your wallet and your phone.”
He pulls them out of his pocket and I check his phone. He hasn’t called or texted anyone. Good boy. I open the window and fling them both out as far as I can.
“Hey!”
“Hey nothing. Keeping you alive, remember? And if you want to stay that way, you have to do exactly what I tell you with zero deviation. Find the cheapest hotel you can. I don’t want to know where or which one. Set up an email account—[email protected], password north1—and email yourself. I’ll check it and we’ll set up a meeting. I don’t know when I’ll respond, but I will. I can’t plan things too far in advance or the Seers watching me will pick up on it. If they haven’t already.”
“Do you do this often?” he asks, his brow furrowed.
“Only for you. Don’t screw it up. Don’t forget you’re dead. I’m risking everything here. Do you understand that?”
He pulls over; we’re in an outlying neighborhood, the buildings old brick, the trees not quite blooming and budding yet. It’s windy. And cold.
Turning all the way toward me, he nods. His face is open and innocent, and I know he couldn’t lie if he tried. “You saved my life, Fia. Or spared it. Whichever. I’m not going to do anything that would risk yours.”
I smile tightly. “I’m glad you stopped to pet the dog.” Then I get out. The wind hits me and makes my arm hurt even more as we get out and pass around the front of the car. I peel off the shirt and hand it to him with an apologetic shrug. I can’t show up in it. I don’t look down at my arm (the blood, I hate the blood, at least it’s mine this time).