That night, the place had been in complete chaos. I could still recall the distant thumping of feet, the shouting of voices, and the constant wailing of an alarm.

There was a heady feeling of escape in the air, and for the first time in a long time, I’d felt like maybe the captivity was finally over.

And then a man rounded into the hallway and shot me.

The bullet had hit me in the chest. My rescuer hollered and shot back. The man dropped where he stood as I slid to the floor, all the air leaving my lungs.

My chest felt like it was on fire. Like someone had built a pyre in my lungs and set a match to it. When I’d looked down at my white T-shirt, it was painted black with my own blood. And I realized that my hand was stamped over the wound, my fingers shaking.

“Can you walk?” my rescuer asked.

I’d nodded, because while I couldn’t feel the beating of my heart, I could feel the curling of my toes.

“Am I dying?” I’d asked her as she hauled me to my feet. “Am I finally dying?”

“No.” She examined me with a quick brush of her fingers. “It hit high in the chest. Missed the vital organs.”

I’d nodded again, like, Okay that’s good, but really I couldn’t think of anything else but the pain in my chest, the pulling of inflamed muscle, and the pulsating beat of singed nerves.

I’d been injured so many times before, but I’d never been shot. I didn’t know if it was an injury I’d survive, and I worried, like I had so many times before, that I’d die in that place and no one would ever know what had happened to me.

We’d threaded through the main area of the building, a maze of gray office partition walls. My rescuer seemed to know where we were going, but I couldn’t tell the difference between one hallway and the next.

We pressed ourselves against a wall when a line of black-clad guards thundered past, but we failed to watch our backside and a man grabbed me by the wrist, yanking me back.

I caught sight of a knife at the man’s waist and pulled it from its sheath. I wasn’t a fighter, but I would fight now, because there was no way I’d be shoved back in that cell.

In the struggle, I was cut, from breast to hip bone, and it took me nearly five seconds to realize I didn’t feel anything at all.

My rescuer stole the knife from the man’s hand and shoved it in his gut. Two people dead in less than ten minutes. I’d never seen anyone killed before, and I was numb from the sight.

We made it out of the maze to the other side of the building, and my rescuer led me to a supply closet. She nodded at a vent in the ceiling. “Climb up. Go straight, then right, then left, then up the ladder.”

She turned to go. “Wait!” I’d called. “My mother is here somewhere.”

“I’ll get her,” she’d said, her voice low and indistinct.

More shouting sounded from the recesses of the building, and the girl slipped out the door.

I’d crawled through the vent and up the ladder and came out in a forest. But I never did see my mother again.

Whoever had held me captive had used her twice to get me to cooperate. They’d threatened her life, and I’d done whatever they’d asked of me after that, but I worried now, like I always did, that they’d killed her as a punishment for my escape.

I pushed aside several glass bottles to get to the one labeled MOM. Her scent had been a difficult one for me to mix. It still wasn’t quite right. I pulled out the cork and breathed in deeply. Roses, for the rose water she used to dab behind her ears. The scent of clean linen, for the hospital scrubs she wore to work, and a hint of lemon, because her breath always smelled like it, like lemon and tea.

My therapist said that hope was a powerful thing, and I’d been clinging to the hope that my mother was alive ever since I’d escaped. But the more years that stretched between now and then, the more the hope dwindled.

If she hadn’t returned yet, then she wasn’t going to return.

I set her bottle back on the shelf and buried it behind the others.

I reached out for Gabriel’s bottle next but pulled back at the last second. I’d already relived enough of that night. I wasn’t sure if I could relive much more.

I turned away and curled back into bed again. I fell asleep quickly.

10

NICK

THE DRIVE TO TRADEMARR, ILLINOIS, took me less than six hours. I arrived before the sun. The GPS system in the truck brought me to the center of town, so I parked behind a row of shops and got out to walk.

The streets were dead and dark, save for spots of light from the lampposts. Even though it was the middle of August, the air was cold, so I threw on a flannel. It made it easier to hide the gun tucked against my back.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and tried to look disinterested in case a cop drove by. But really, I was scanning the surroundings, not only for signs of the Branch, but for things that looked familiar.

When Anna had found the name of this town in my file, I’d thought arriving here would dislodge whatever memories the Branch had buried. It didn’t.

Nothing looked familiar.

It’d been over six years since I’d been here, but I should have recognized something.

I walked to the main street and cut left, crossing at an intersection marked Washington and Ash. The shops were pretty standard. A New Agey store. A bookstore. A coffee shop. A bakery. A bar. Another bar. Good to know. Just in case I needed a drink.

I always did.

Everything was closed at this time of night, which made it easier to examine and mark what was here.