Jason watched as Rachel stowed the pistol beneath her pillow. He set his hand over Ana's blanketed foot, and unease bubbled in him as he realized he wasn't even sure of his own motives at this point. Was he reassuring his sister? Was he trying to score sympathy points with Rachel? Or was he simply distracting himself from his mewling conscience?

"Thank you," he said.

That, at least, he knew was sincere. Rachel might not know what all she'd signed on for, and he wasn't stupid—or honest—enough to tell her. But every minute she was here, he'd be grateful. Not that his gratefulness would do her any good. It felt like being on one of those hunting trips with his mom, being thankful to the rabbits he was skinning for dinner. The rabbits didn't care how he felt about them. The rabbits were just dead.

She shrugged. "Whatever." Her eyes flicked over him. "I want double the money."

The taunt of a familiar game dragged him out of the dark thoughts. A practiced, incredulous smile sprung to his lips. "For what?" he protested.

"Increased risk!" she said, as if that should be obvious. Pink spots bloomed on her cheeks, clashing with her vivid curls.

His brow quirked—a talent from his dad he'd practiced and perfected. Jason buried a pang at the memory. "You knew I was shot when you picked me up."

"I knew you were in trouble." She looked him up and down, lips pursed, brow drawn. "I didn't know you were trouble."

"Twelve thousand," Jason offered, "and I'd already be breaking my word."

"Ha!" Rachel threw her head back. "You're the child of convicts and I'm... well, I'm me. What use have we got for honesty?"

"Honor among thieves, right?" He shrugged.

She crossed her arms, eyeing him with professional distaste. "You're no thief."

"And you're no dealbreaker."

"Says who? 15K."

"Thirteen, and that's my last offer." It was too generous, but it was meant to be. He wasn't buying her services anymore; he could have talked her down to their original figure. No, he was playing with her, teasing her, finding their rhythm. He was buying her loyalty. An oily coil slid around in his stomach.

She stuck her jaw out, but her stern, alley-cat glare didn't scare him anymore. "I have a gun, you know."

"I know." Flatly, he said, "I'm rather hoping you don't shoot me with it."

She made a face, but it was more petulant than threatening. He didn't waver, and she heaved a great sigh. "Thirteen then."

He smiled and rose halfway to offer her his hand. "Done." Before she could shake, he pulled it up. "And no more renegotiating."

"Yeah, yeah." She rolled her eyes, but when they shook on it, she had a good, solid grasp, her hand calloused but warm.

He sat back down, wincing as it jarred his arm. Rachel flopped back onto her pillows. "So, if you're telling the truth, what's up with the news story?"

Those pictures were the last thing he wanted to talk about. He tucked the covers up around Ana again, brushed some stray hairs from her face. Her eyes were open but getting heavier. She wouldn't be up much longer, and he was glad for it. She needed the sleep.

"Well?" Rachel prodded.

Jason dragged a hand down his face. "They must've been faked."

"In under four hours?"

"Makes more sense than the real story being printed in that time anyway."

"Yeah, but—" Rachel shifted. "Isn't that kind of... scary good? To be able to stage the bodies—"

"Or doctor the photos," he insisted. The thought helped whitewash the blood and the corpses and his parents awful, vacant stares.

"—write their twist, and bribe the newspaper to print it instead of the real thing? In the time it took us to drive here."

Jason resisted the urge to scrub his face again; it wouldn't get the pictures out. "The cops wouldn't have to bribe anybody, right? They just tell the reporters whatever facts they want them to know."

Her lip curled, but the look of disgust wasn't for him. Just like he'd hoped, she distrusted the police. Ironically, the more he thought about it, the surer he was that cops didn't have anything to do with it. Despite the sirens, not a single car had been marked. None of the officers had been in uniform. They'd worked together like cops, but they could have been anyone.

However, a faceless, deep-pocketed organization hunting him down was much scarier than the police. And while he could bury that fear deep where it belonged, had trained himself all seventeen years to wrap his emotions up in coffins and bows, he'd seen what happened when Rachel got spooked. He couldn't afford for her to become a wildcard. Much better for his 'enemy' to be one she was already at odds with.

Though she was right about one thing. Whoever these people were, they were, as she put it, scary good.

With his thoughts wandering once again into dangerous dens, her eyes bored holes into him. He noticed it like you notice heat—not at all at first and then unignorably as it intensified. He rummaged in his back to take the pressure off. Careful, he reminded himself as he pulled out a granola bar. You're not trying to snag her because she's stupid.

A worry wormed its way into Jason's mind, and he let it fester there, no matter that he knew the odds were next to nothing. The key to playing pretend was believing just a bit yourself. "If you were able to find out about me that quickly..." He flicked his eyes toward the door. "You think that clerk's going to recognize me?"

Rachel snorted, dropping the piercing stare. Jason relaxed. "You're not exactly the country's most wanted, Psycho Boy. Fake news is just the pigs' way of covering their tracks." She shimmied lower into her bed. "I mean, it might cast out a local net for you, but it's not like you're recognizable nationwide." She winked. "It's only been four hours. Give it some time." With that, she flicked off the bedside lamp. The grey dawn seeped through the sheer curtains as she rolled into her blankets.

This time, he didn't assume anything about her. He didn't let impatience or emotions or irrationality get the best of him. He watched, steady as a sentinel, until she began to softly snore. Only then did he slip off to bed himself, sliding his good arm beneath Ana's head and ignoring the pulsing heat of his other.

Her hand came up, clutching at his fingers. He squeezed back. Laying here now, he could feel her shaking, and he wondered how long she had been. He pulled her closer. "Shhh," he whispered. "You'll be okay. I've got you."

He didn't care if the entire world cracked and crumbled beneath their feet, if the earth swallowed them whole. He'd be her shield and her rope; he would pull her out of the wreckage and build her a home. And he'd step over everyone in the world to do it.

Her tremors slowed and settled. Her breathing evened out. He kissed the top of her head. "Sleep well, Ana."

The irrational part of him wanted to believe that once they found this Sam Wiles, someone would press a reset button so everything could go back to normal. He let himself cling to the ridiculous thought for a minute, just one, before blowing it away like ash.

The photo of his parents haunted the back of his eyelids, so instead, he stared through the grey morning, past his sister's mess of hair, at nothing. His parents' death—or capture, he forced himself to believe—was a fact he understood but couldn't quite feel yet. A hollow space inside him waited for a storm to fill it up, but none came. He should feel something. He should.

Coldly, he watched shadows creep across the wall. The sun rose slowly, inch by inch. It covered up the night as if too were saying what was doesn't matter. He watched it go, breaths even, heart slow. He didn't scrabble for the yesterday it was putting behind it. He didn't cry, didn't beg, didn't lie to himself like most people would. It wouldn't do any good. No, as the sun shone light over the cheap, dirty motel room where he hid, Jason didn't feel. He plotted logistics.

This, out of everything that had happened, seemed the most inhuman of all.

With her brother's arm wrapped tight around her, Ana fought off sleep. That redheaded girl was right there, just across the room from them, and Jason didn't know how dangerous she was. It didn't matter that the girl was snoring now; she might wake up. Maybe she would wake up angry. And if Ana was asleep, who would be there to protect Jason?

The redheaded girl had been going to hurt Jason. When Ana had come to, really come to, she had known that, sure as sure. The girl had been going to pull that trigger, just like the scared, hateful man who had shot Jason before.

Ana whimpered, and Jason shushed her. "Go back to sleep," he whispered, voice flat as rocks. "You're safe. I've got you."

Had she gone to sleep? Had she stopped paying attention? She didn't know, and that set little grasshoppers skittering and flying in her heart. She pressed back into her brother, and he held her close and warm. She wished he felt as solid all the time as he felt right now: sure and steady as a mountain, warm and real as the sun. When he talked to that redheaded girl, he felt like a shifting shadow, or like a bit of mist in the morning. He didn't feel like himself at all when he talked to that girl.

Sleep tugging at her eyelids, she pressed her lips to the back of her brother's hand, just like he sometimes did to her forehead. In her mind, she promised him the same thing he kept whispering to her: I've got you.

No matter who the redheaded girl turned him into or what she threatened them with, she would take care of Jason. Because Ana did not like the girl. Ana did not trust her.

And Ana would be watching.