“You’re underestimating me. People don’t do that often.” He sounds almost amused by the novelty. “Just meet with me. Choose a neutral location. Paul can come along, if you’d find that comforting. Let me figure out how much you have to bargain with, and then we’ll bargain.”
How can he not be getting the message? “You don’t have anything I want!”
Conley’s voice gets very quiet. “Yes, I do. I have something you want very much.”
And there’s something about the way he says it that makes me believe him.
Is he talking about Theo? I glance at Paul, whose eyes are wide. He knows what Conley’s referring to—and whatever it is, it’s important. It’s real.
“The Chinatown Dragon Gate,” I say. It’s the first landmark that comes to mind. “Meet me there in one hour. It has to be you, and you have to come alone. Got it? One hour from—now.” With that I hang up the call, and shut off the phone. Even Conley’s hackers can’t undo the plain old off switch.
Paul stares at me. “You can’t meet with Conley.”
“No shit. But I bought us one hour. While he’s in Chinatown, we can get you to the airport.”
“You’re good at this.” A smile spreads across Paul’s face. “Being on the run.”
“I’m getting a lot of practice.”
Paul and I sit next to each other on the BART train, his enormous duffel bag like a third person crammed in with us. It’s about half an hour to the airport, which gives us more time to talk.
And yet there’s so much to ask, so much to say, that I find it hard to find any words at all.
Finally I ask the simplest question I can think of. “Why Ecuador?”
“The other Paul made these plans, not me. I assume it’s because Ecuador has no extradition treaty with the United States.”
Of course. Erasing Mom and Dad’s data was one thing, but when Paul attacked Triad as well, he committed a crime that won’t be forgiven. The Paul from this dimension needs to make his own escape, so this Paul is seeing it through. “You always leave yourself a back door, don’t you?”
“Before you get into trouble, it pays to ask yourself how you’ll get out again.” He looks back at me now, gray eyes darkened by their intensity. “You need to get out of this too, Marguerite.”
“Whoa. You want me to run off with you to Ecuador?”
“You’re not coming with me,” he says flatly. Even though I had exactly zero intention of dashing away to South America, his blunt refusal stings. Paul pauses, then adds, “I meant—you need to go home.”
“We’re both going home now. Right?” I assume Paul’s waiting to jump until he’s taken this version safely to the airport.
But Paul hesitates before answering, one second too long.
“Where are you going now?”
“I can’t tell you that yet.”I could strangle him. “Has keeping secrets done any good at any point on this journey? Why can’t you trust me?”
He shuts his eyes, like I’m making his head hurt. “It’s not about distrusting you.”
“Then what is it about? I’ve tried to trust you—even when everyone else told me not to—”
“You believed I killed Henry,” Paul shoots back. Which is a good point.
“That doesn’t count. Conley framed you. Made it look like you cut Dad’s brakes.”
Paul shrugs. He thinks I should’ve known better, and maybe he’s right.
Quietly, I say, “I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t apologize. I understand that you weren’t yourself. And Conley can be convincing, when he wants to be.” But Paul’s entire body remains tense. If he’s not angry, then why . . . ?
Oh.
“In Russia—” I don’t know what to say, where to begin. “You and me—I don’t know if you remember everything, or anything—”
“I remember having sex.”
I want to turn my head away, but how ridiculous would it be to get bashful now?
Paul seems to realize he’s once again been too blunt. “I, ah, I also remember getting wounded. Did he survive?”
“No. You—he—died in my arms.”
Paul’s head ducks, as if he feels the loss as deeply as I do. Maybe he does. “I’m sorry.”
Tears well in my eyes, but I try to fight them back.
Quietly he adds, “I know you loved him. Not me.”
“Maybe. I don’t know,” I whisper.
He takes a deep breath, almost in wonder. I realize that even maybe is more than Paul had dared to dream of. Everything he’s done, everything he gave up and risked for me: Paul did all that without the slightest idea of being loved in return.
“Marguerite—”
“I don’t know where he stops and you begin.”
The train slows as it pulls into its next stop, and apparently half the population of this neighborhood is headed to the airport today. As dozens of people crowd on, hauling their bags with them, Paul and I fall silent, unable to look each other in the eye.
I think about the Rachmaninoff ringtone on my phone. What are Paul and I to each other, in this dimension? We must be very nearly the same, if that one song still reminds me of him. If he was willing to once again give up everything—wreck his own life—trying to protect my parents’ work, and to protect me—