“That’s not how I meant it. I didn’t feel afraid. Maybe ‘stalker’ isn’t the right word.” I rub my temples and gather my thoughts, trying to figure out what the right word is. “I don’t think he wanted to hurt me. It’s more like he … he wanted to tell me something.”

“Like, ‘Get into my car before I blow your brains out’?”

“Benson!”

Benson senses that he’s pushed me one step too far and stays quiet for a while. Finally he offers an apology. “I’m sorry. I know you’re not stupid, and I don’t mean to treat you that way. I just … I’d hate to see you get really hurt because your instincts might be … off.”

He doesn’t have to tap one finger against the side of his head for me to take his meaning. A lot of my reactions are still a little off-kilter. Maybe that’s all this is. This overwhelming draw to be near a strange guy—to talk to him, to sit in silence, to just be the two of us—it’s a ridiculous feeling, a terrible instinct, and I know it. But telling myself that and turning the feeling off are two vastly different things.

The moment gets a little heavy, and to cover my anxiousness, I lean away from Benson and start digging around in the bottom of my backpack again.

“What are you looking for?”

“My ChapStick,” I grumble. The cold air here is surprisingly hard on my lips. The winters were plenty harsh in Michigan, but Reese says that the salt from the ocean is what’s making my skin dry out. So now I carry ChapStick everywhere.

Except when I misplace it.

Which is frequently.

“Look in your pocket,” Benson says with apologetic warmth in his voice. “It’s always in your pocket when you can’t find it.”

Making a silent wish, I dig into my pocket and breathe a sigh of relief when my hand closes around the familiar tube. “You’re a genius.”

“You’re an addict,” he counters.

“I’m telling you,” I say, pausing to rub my lips together, “in five minutes I’ll just have to do it again. I think I’ve become immune.”

“I think you have a serious problem, Tave. You need to go to therapy.”

“You’re so weird,” I say, turning back to my homework.

“No, seriously,” Benson says. “It’s almost three o’clock. You need to get to physical therapy.”

I hesitate. In the face of everything that has happened, going to physical therapy seems so small. So unimportant.

As though reading my thoughts, Benson squeezes my hand as he says quietly, “Let me think on this for a bit. It’s hard to take in all at once. Go ahead and go to your appointment and text me later, deal?”

I muster up a smile and say, “Deal,” feeling a little better. I pull on my jacket and, in a playful impulse, grab Benson’s face, planting a ChapStick kiss on his cheek.

As soon as my lips make contact with his skin, he stills, his hands tightening on my arms, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

But then he’s wiping his cheek and his eyes aren’t on me and I’m not completely sure it happened at all. ‘Tavia,” he protests. “Gross!”

“See you tomorrow,” I say with a little finger wave.

“Addict,” Benson hisses one more time just before I reach the front doors.

CHAPTER FIVE

The route from the library to the physical therapy center takes me up Park Street, through an old section of town. This area is an eclectic mix of old and new: a gas station, an ancient brewery, a famous house that’s now a historic monument—beautifully restored—all amid a formless mix of office buildings, many in the shells of their original two-hundred-year-old structures. It’s a clashing of times that feels dissonant, yet reeks of awesome. I love it.

But enjoying the scenery is kind of low on my list at the moment. I’m trying to keep my pace up while walking to a steady four-count in my head. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. It’s a trick my physical therapist taught me a couple weeks ago.

“Tavia Michaels, you should not have a limp anymore,” she insists. But after months of shying away from the pain, it’s become a habit—my natural cadence even though the pain is gone.

Most days.

Pure physical therapy only gets you so far; now it’s a question of resetting my mind. So I count. A lot.

But my even pace is a little hard to maintain when my eyes are darting to the space above every building, every front door, looking for symbols.

I blink. Was that a flash? I peer harder, blink again. Nope. This time I really am just seeing things. Great.

I try not to look at the next house, but I can’t help it. My eyes wander to the door all on their own.

What the … ? I come to an abrupt halt, and a man in a jogging suit mutters as he sidesteps to keep from running into me.

It’s not a triangle this time, and it’s not glowing, either. This one looks solid and … real. I take a few steps toward it, peering at the symbol carved into the beam above the door. It’s so worn—not to mention painted over—that I can’t quite tell what it is; something round but elongated over some curvy lines. It could be anything, but it’s definitely something, and it sets my heart racing the same way the glowing triangles did.

I attempt to look casual—like I’m not some creepy voyeur—as I pull out my phone and take a quick picture. As soon as the phone clicks, I shove it in my pocket, hoping no one noticed.