“Do you mean I made it with my powers?” I ask, not understanding.

She shakes her head. “I’ve been telling you for months that being an artist is integral to who you are. You don’t have to do anything supernatural to create something that will help you remember—or else what would Destroyers be left with? You just have to make it. Generally in the form of art, painting, sculpting, or”—she gestures at my necklace—“jewelry. Simple as it is, I’m pretty sure this bit of carpet counts. I tied both ends and cut it off. It shouldn’t have mattered that much; a memory pull with a creation from any of the lifetimes should restore them all. But I kept it just in case. And now?” She raises her eyelashes, showing intense blue eyes. “I don’t know if you do want to remember that life or not. Whatever happened to make you so paranoid, you didn’t tell us. Maybe it’s better left buried. But I think that’s a choice you should make for yourself.”

I’m afraid to reach out my hand, but I don’t have to. Sammi is already shaking her head.

“Don’t touch it,” she says. “Don’t even look at it. Not until you decide if you want to. Those memories might be somewhere in your head—but if Elizabeth is right, you may need this to get Sonya’s memories back. I’m going to tuck it in here.” She slides a Ziploc bag into a small pocket of my backpack and holds it out to me. “Now it’s up to you.” Then, before I can even process her confession, she’s walking away.

“I’ll call the pilot and have him start preparations. Grab anything you want to take with you from this car that you borrowed,” she calls over her shoulder. “We’re leaving it here. Maybe it will find its way home.”

I turn to Benson and lean my forehead against his shoulder, drawing strength from him as his arms wind around me, pulling me close. I feel like my whole body is devoid of energy after everything I’ve learned and heard today.

Hell, the last several days.

He’s my anchor to reality. No, more than that—my own sanity.

“I don’t know what to do,” I admit, my lips close to his ear.

“Let’s start with collecting our stuff,” he whispers. “That way, if you want to run, you’re ready. But”—he pauses—“if you do still want to, maybe it’s best if we go with them tonight and run tomorrow. At least we’d be thousands of miles away.”

“Forgive me if I don’t share your confidence in a plane getting us anywhere safely,” I say darkly.

He squeezes my hand in understanding before reaching into the center console and grabbing his phone. He holds it, looking down at it for a moment, and then his expression grows hard and he throws it as hard as he can into the trees.

I eavesdrop on Sammi as I fill my backpack to bursting with all the things from the dugout and the journals from the front seat. I look up when Mark curses. He’s staring at his ringing phone but not answering it. “It’s Daniel again. I have to answer eventually. What am I supposed to tell him?”

“Anything but the truth,” Sammi says wryly.

“Who’s Daniel?” I ask, recognizing the name from the conversation I overheard in their bedroom.

Another conversation that included hiding the truth from this Daniel person.

“Bigwig in the Curatoria,” Elizabeth answers for Sammi.

My heart pounds in warning. “Then why don’t you trust him?”

The three adults look back and forth at each other and don’t speak.

“Oh please,” I say in such a bitter tone that all three heads jerk up. “We got into this mess because you wouldn’t talk to me. Have you learned nothing?”

Sammi nods and beckons me closer. “We’ve been seeing some signs of … corruption, so to speak … among the higher authorities of the Curatoria. Regarding your case, specifically.”

I think about Sunglasses Guy, not to mention everything else that’s happened since. I was certain they were Reduciata assassins, and Sammi indicated that they were too. Are we both wrong? I grit my teeth, wishing I could remember whatever it is that the Reduciata thinks I know.

“So, just to be safe, we’re trying to keep our plans as out of their hands as possible. Even the six guns I brought,” she says, pointing to the trees, “are old friends of my dad’s who know not to report to their superiors. We could be wrong about everything,” Sammi hurries to add. “But we want to keep you safe.”

I swallow, Quinn’s words echoing in my head. Trust ye the Curatoria but tenuously. Tenuously indeed. Apparently that’s how much they trust themselves.

“Let’s get out of here,” Sammi says, making a gesture to her hidden bodyguards and leading the way.

“No.”

The word is soft, almost inaudible, but Sammi hears.

“Tavia—”

“No.” I say it louder now. I hold out the files. “Thank you for these, but I won’t be your pawn.”

“It’s not about that.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have to make this decision on my own. And that means not going with you tonight. That doesn’t mean I won’t help with the virus,” I add before she can speak. “But the fact is, I don’t trust Curatoria.”

“Tavia,” Sammi begins. “Don’t make me force you. I don’t—”

“Let me walk away, and I promise you’ll hear from me again. And soon. Show of good faith,” I say, challenge in my eyes. “But if you try to …” A movement over her shoulder catches my eyes and I nearly gasp when I realize it’s Quinn.