I type back, Tell me where you are. I won’t take no for an answer.
Answers—that’s what I need, and I’m not waiting for them any longer. But my phone remains silent as I keep sliding down, the screens projecting green light at me with the message “Everyplace, Everytime, Everywhere.”
So I send one more message. Tell me or I swear I’ll go back up there.
I mean it, too. Because if Paul isn’t ready to tell me the truth even now, maybe I’ve been wrong to believe in him. Maybe I was right to want him dead.
My phone buzzes. San Francisco, the Tenderloin. Meet me in Union Square Park.
The elevator deposits me in the lobby and politely says, “Have a nice day, Miss Caine.” That thing is creepy.
In case Conley’s watching from above, I pretend to look around in the lobby for my bracelet, then apologize to the security guard as I turn in my badge and head outside. Then I run for Theo’s car so fast my flats nearly fly off my feet.
As I unlock the door, Paul texts, You know you need to steal the car.
“Borrow,” I say out loud, knowing he can’t hear me. “I’m borrowing Theo’s car. He’ll understand. Eventually.”
I punch the key into the ignition and hurriedly send, What do you mean, Conley is after me?
The answer comes even before I can put the car in reverse: This is all about you, Marguerite.
You’re the one Conley has wanted all along.
22
THEO ALWAYS SAID HE’D TEACH ME TO DRIVE A MANUAL transmission someday, but he never seemed to have the time. So really this is all his fault.
The clutch grinds, or the motor grinds—I don’t know what it is making that sound in Theo’s car, but I know it’s not right. As soon as I get near a BART station, I stash Theo’s car in a garage and hop onto a train that will take me into the city.
Now, though, as I sit there on the train—so plain in dull pale blue, so unlike the holographic Tube cars in London—I can feel my heart beating so hard that it seems to be drumming against my locket.
I’ve run straight to the guy who seems to have betrayed everyone I love, the man no one believes in but me.
Once upon a time, the Tenderloin was a seedy part of town, or so Mom and Dad tell me. But Union Square Park is now bordered by Saks Fifth Avenue, Macy’s, Nordstrom. Most people are bundled up in coats; to me, after weeks in St. Petersburg, the day doesn’t feel so cold. Everyone seems busy and cheerful, especially the crowds on the ice-skating rink, the one they always set up during the holidays. For a moment, the whirling, giggling figures on the ice take me back to St. Petersburg—and then I see one still, silent person in the background.
Paul stands near the foot of the Victoria Monument, wearing his one good winter coat, the one Mom gave him. He must have seen me before I saw him, because he doesn’t flinch. Instead he squares his shoulders, like he’s preparing for a fight.
Paul. My heart is equal parts joy, pain, and fear. Joy to see him alive again. Pain because this isn’t the same Paul who died in Russia—because his very presence is a reminder that a Paul I loved, a Paul who loved me, is gone forever.
Fear because I still don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know whether Paul’s saving me or leading me even deeper into danger than I already am.
I can’t make myself keep walking forward. It’s as though I’m pinned to the spot. But Paul is already coming to me, closing the rest of the distance. Every step he takes toward me brings him into sharper focus, and I find myself noticing each detail that reminds me of Paul in Russia, and each one that makes them different.
He speaks first. “Thank you for coming here. For trusting me.”
I still can’t get over seeing him alive again. “How—how did you get out of Russia?”
“Azarenko returned the Firebird to me before the battle. I leaped out not long after the fighting started.”
Paul looks worried, and I realize he wants to ask about his other self. Whether he lived. I can’t bring myself to talk about Lieutenant Markov. I’d break down, and I can’t afford that, not now. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve taken a room in a nearby hostel. Theo got me a fake ID last year, so I used it to check in, and hostels take cash. Even Conley can’t trace me here. Tomorrow morning, early, I’m taking the train to the airport. I’ve got a flight to Quito.”
That’s nice, but so not what I was asking.
He adds, “Quito is in Ecuador.”
“I know where Quito is!” I snap, which is technically true because he just told me. “I meant, what’s going on? With you and with Conley and all of it. Don’t tell me to go back home like a good girl. If you do that again, I swear—”
“I won’t do that again.” But Paul says it less like a promise, more like . . . admitting defeat. “You should have gone home when I told you to, but now it’s too late.”
“So are you going to explain? Finally?”
“Yes.” Paul looks up at the sky, as though he’s afraid we’re being watched. Then again, Triad owns satellites. Conley could watch us from space if he wanted to.
I think Paul’s paranoia is infecting me.
“Come on,” Paul says. “Let’s go back to the hostel.”
We walk there together, side by side, without saying a word. Lieutenant Markov in Russia might have offered me his arm; if he knew nobody was watching, he would have held my hand. Paul doesn’t.