I throw clothes into my suitcase so fast I don't bother folding them. Jeans, t-shirts, hoodies and the Luxecaster bomber jacket I was supposed to wear for the shoot. My hands are shaking. It feels like everything is shaking.

I yank open the dresser drawer and grab a handful of underwear and socks, shoving them into the side pocket of my suitcase. My mind screams at me to move faster. Faster.

Get out before--

"Where do you think you're going?"

The voice is sharp  and cuts through my panic. Sheer terror floods in. I spin around.

Dr. Santos stands in the doorway of the cabana, her arms crossed, her expression frigid.

"I'm not going back to that place," I say, zipping the suitcase closed. "Three months was enough."

"You have to. Those were the rules."

"I didn't do anything wrong," I say, hoisting the suitcase off the bed and grabbing my backpack. "Katya gave me a cup of tea that she said was from you."

"You're making that up!" She's in my face in an instant, wagging her finger in my face. "Don't lie, Preston. I've always known there was something off with you."

And there it is. All of the years I imagined she didn't approve of my relationship with Mateo now confirmed with one wag of the finger. It doesn't even occur to her that I might be telling the truth. Not when she's already made her mind up about me. But I'm too desperate to care anymore. Everything is closing in around me and the threat of spending more time doing yoga, locked away from school , my content and Mateo makes me feel like I'm about to explode again. This time without magic. Which might be the most dangerous explosion of all.

"That's bullshit and you know it," I snap at her.

Her eyes narrow into slits. "Watch your tone."

"Or what?" I sling the backpack over my shoulder and grab the suitcase handle. "You'll report me? You already did that."

I push past her, my shoulder bumping hers as I move through the doorway. She doesn't try to stop me physically, but her voice follows me like a blade. "You can run, Press. But you know we'll find you. The Consortium always finds who they're looking for."

As much as I want to, I don't look back. I half-run from the backyard and its nosy statues, dragging my suitcase on the cobblestone. When I reach my car, I throw my suitcase into the trunk and slam the door shut. My hands fumble with my keys. 

Finally, I get the door open and slide into the driver's seat. Dr. Santos is in my rearview, waving her phone and yelling something I can't hear. I don't care anymore.

I peel out of the driveway so fast the tires screech.

✨✨✨

I'm halfway out of Caldera Heights before I remember to put my phone on airplane mode. My fingers shake as I swipe up, tap the icon, watch the little airplane symbol appear at the top of the screen.

No GPS or tracking. I hope they can't find me. Whoever they is. 

I merge onto the freeway, my heart pounding in my ears. The urge to call someone--Harley, Mateo, anyone--is so strong it physically hurts. But I can't. If I call them, they'll get dragged into this. The Consortium doesn't play around with people who help fugitives.

Fugitive. Is that what I am now?

I take the exit toward the West Side, the part of LA where the buildings are lower and the paint is peeling, where people don't have money for enchanted hedges that bloom on command. This is where I grew up. Mom moved back to the same cramped apartment with the water-stained ceiling and the neighbors who scream so loud at each other, it carries through the walls.

I haven't been here in six months. The building looks even more run-down than I remember. Faded yellow stucco and rust stains bleed down from the gutters. A broken security gate stands at the entrance to the parking lot, wide open to anyone who wants to drive in.

I park in the lot and grab my suitcase from the trunk. I drag it over uneven concrete, passing older cars and a duo of stray cats lounging in the afternoon sun. I wrinkle my nose at the scent of mildew that permeates the apartment lobby. The elevator is out of order (of course it is) so I haul everything up three flights of stairs, my backpack cutting into my shoulder.

By the time I reach her door, I'm out of breath and sweating.

I bang on it. Hard.

"Jesus Christ, why are you banging on my door like that?" Mom yanks it open, her face twisted in annoyance.

She's wearing an old USC sweatshirt--Dad's, from before everything--and leggings with a hole in the knee. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun. There's a wine glass in her hand even though it's barely four in the afternoon.

"I need a place to hide," I greet her.

She blinks at me. Then at my suitcase, then back at me. "What?"

"Can I come in?"

She steps aside without a word.

The apartment smells like cigarettes and burnt bread. The TV blares in the living room, some reality show I don't recognize. The coffee table is covered in magazines and empty takeout containers.

I drop my suitcase by the door and turn to face her.

 I tell her everything. About the garden party, the rehab center, Dr. Santos, the blackmail, Allegra not helping me and the Consortium wanting to lock me back up. The words tumble out in a messy, frantic rush.

The whole time I'm talking, Mom just stands there with this dubious expression on her face. Like she's listening but also not listening. She's already decided what she thinks before I've even finished.

When I finally stop, she takes a sip of wine and heads toward the kitchen.

"So this is how I find out my son was in a rehab center for three months," she says.

I stare at her. "Mom, that's all you heard? From everything I just told you?"

"I'm just saying, Press. A phone call would've been nice."

I follow her into the kitchen where she's found her pack of cigarettes. She taps one out onto her palm and lights it up, ignoring the disgust on my face.

"They're going to come get me," I say. "I didn't even do anything wrong. I was set up."

"Well." She sets her wine glass down on the counter. Takes a puff.  "Did you ever stop to think that this would be the first place they'd come looking?"

My stomach plummets. "Oh my God. You're right."

"Listen," she says, crossing her arms. "You can't stay here. But I'll cover your tracks if they come looking for you."

"What? How?"

She walks over to the kitchen counter and grabs her car keys. She tosses them to me. I catch them on instinct.

"Take my car," she says, blowing smoke out of her nose. "Leave yours here. They'll think you're here. And when they come banging on my door, it'll give me a reason to give them some hell. You know I don't like those magical assholes anyway."

I look down at the keys in my hand. They're attached to a keychain shaped like a palm tree, the paint chipped and faded. Without warning, tears spring to my eyes.

"Mom--"

"Don't get sentimental on me." She picks up her wine glass again. "Just go before I change my mind."

I want to say something. Thank you, or I'm sorry. But I don't know what to say. She and I have never been big on words.

Instead, I grab my suitcase and backpack.

"If they ask," she says as I open the door, "I'll tell them you've fallen off of the face of the earth."

I turn back. Now she's standing in the middle of the living room, her arms wrapped around herself like she's cold.

We look at each other for a long moment.

"Thanks," I say quietly.

She nods.

Without another word, I turn and leave.

Mom's car is a beat-up Honda Civic with a dent in the passenger door and an air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror that stopped working years ago. I throw my stuff in the back seat and slide behind the wheel.

The seat is too far forward. I adjust it and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look like hell with chapped lips and dark circles under my eyes. 

I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot with one thought nagging at me: I have absolutely no idea where I'm going next.