Page 47

Finally, I reply, “Let’s stay strangers today.”

“Oh? A shame.” He pushes away from the door. “I had quite a nice date last time, all things considered.”

I sniff at him. “I’d hardly call it a date.”

He looks like he wants to say something more, then changes his mind and nods out at the street. “Very well. I always delight in being your distraction, but it’s best you keep your wits about you. I might not be the only familiar face you see today.”

I frown at him, my skin prickling. “What do you mean by that?”

He just leans back against the door and refuses to say more.

A part of me wants to resist his suggestion, to refuse to look in the direction he wants. This is all part of his game, I tell myself.

But some secret weight in his expression bothers me, as if he’s genuinely trying to give me a clue. Unnerved, I look elsewhere.

And right as I do, I see the girl on the other side of the street.

It’s Laine.

18

I blink, wiping rainwater from my eyes, trying to convince myself that I’m mistaken.

But this is not one of my regular imaginings of her, of pretending to talk things out with a ghost of her created in my own mind.

No, this is her. Solid. In the flesh.

Of all the people in the world, there is no one I’m able to pinpoint as quickly as Laine—that halo of frizzy blond hair, curling tighter in the rain; that brisk, slightly hunched walk, her hands shoved aggressively into her pockets; that nineties-inspired look, from her windbreaker to her vintage band shirt. It is Laine as I remember her, as if she had been plucked right out of my memories and placed across the street.

As if I’m meant to save her again, here, today.

It’s a lie.

It’s a lie, it’s a lie.

A hallucination of the brain, a sensory experience without external stimuli, changes in neurotransmitters sometimes brought on by sleep deprivation or stress. Hadn’t I tossed and turned last night? Hadn’t I just witnessed the traumatic death of Soren?

And yet, even as I try to convince myself that she’s nothing more than an illusion, the thought flitters away, pushed aside by an overwhelming desire to believe what I see. She must be a lie, but already my mind is engulfing it, ignoring the warning signs. My ring is tingling, sending an ice-cold warning up my arm, but I can barely feel it.

It’s a lie. Except maybe it’s not. Maybe Laine really is here, because maybe she remembers me, maybe the bargain I’d made with Raven is gone, maybe she can be back in my life, and I can be in hers. Maybe she’s looking for me.

She must be searching for me.

The sheer power of this thought floods my mind, bringing with it a wave of anxiety. She’s trying to find me, so I have to let her know I’m here. Stop, a part of my mind screams at me. But there is nothing I can do to restrain myself from running across the street, my boots splashing in the rain.

He is going to show you what you want to see.

“Laine!” I scream. “Laine!”

People cast me odd looks as I race to the opposite sidewalk, but Laine is already disappearing into the huddled crowds. I speed up, not caring that the wind is pulling my umbrella behind me, that rain is beading my face. Laine, Laine! And there in the crowd, I see that frizzy head walking along, a wire from her earbuds running down her back. The way she always liked to wear them.

The confirmation rings strong in my mind. She is so real, and every detail is so exact, it has to be her. Because how could Étienne possibly conjure precisely how Laine looks, when he’s never met her before? How could he, when he can’t read my mind?

“Laine, wait!”

She stops at the edge of the intersection and looks in my direction, but her eyes never focus on me. It’s as if she’s waiting for a cab.

I force my way past a crowd of tourists huddled under their umbrellas, trying to take photos of the elegant Christmas arches on the street. For a moment, Laine disappears from view.