I regained my composure and stepped past him to shut the door. He watched me close and lock it and turned as I did. We stood there, facing one another, our features difficult to make out in the limited lighting.

When I'd overcome my shock, I spoke first. "Are you all right? The storm . . . ?"

"Felt great after days of taking ocean baths." There was laughter in his voice, but I couldn't believe he was there.

What--what could I say to him? After all this time . . . all that had happened . . . in this place . . . "How are you even here--how did you find me?" Even as I said the words, I felt my heart sink at the thought of him working with Ms. Indelicato, here because he was with them, had some job to do distracting me.

"Nadia--" he stepped toward me, and I tried to make out his face in the darkness.

"What?"

"Since I saw him take you, I've been trying to find you. And now I have . . ."

He seemed to be stumbling over his words, and not being able to see him frustrated me; I couldn't read his expressions, his body language. "Stop, Paolo--" I held up my hands, a motion he could surely make out, even in the shadow. "So much has happened . . . how could you possibly have found me?"

He sighed, deeply--from what emotion I didn't know. "I didn't know where to go at first. I hitchhiked, in the direction you'd gone, into the nearest town. And then I asked everyone around about his car--Henry's car. Nobody had seen anything, heard anything. I stayed in town, asked for days. Went to the police. Hoping . . . just hoping I'd hear something, see it on the news. I--I didn't know what to do. I'd almost given up finding you, but then . . ." He took a deep breath, "I got a text."

"From who?"

"I didn't--don't--know. Someone saying to come here, this address, that you were here."

"But this is miles from where we last saw each other."

He didn't respond at first, and I wished terribly that I could see him, that I could do more than listen to his alluring voice in the darkness. "There are buses. People who gave me rides. I had to find you. I was on the beach for a couple of days, just walking . . . and then, another text. That you were here. Couldn't get in the door, but saw you on the balcony, so I waited."

"But . . . that would mean they know you're here. They wanted you to come here." I turned away from him. "It's all some plan . . . but for what?"

"I don't know, don't care. I've found you."

I sat on the edge of the bed, stunned. Amazed. How could this be happening? What did it mean? But I had to stop trying to figure them out. Nothing ever made sense to me.

"Paolo, I . . . I don't know what to say to you. You didn't need to find me. I can take care of myself."

After a pause, his response was mischievous: "Don't be so selfish, Nadia. It's not all about you."

"What are you talking about?"

I could hear his smile as he said, "I like you. It's that simple."

"What?"

"I know you heard me."

I thought of everything I'd been feeling toward him since Lucas had told me Paolo had been paid to bring me to Silverton, tried to categorize my emotions. It was complicated, at the least. I'd wanted so badly to see him at that club, wished that he'd written that note to meet him there, needed an explanation from him . . . because I felt something for him that I hadn't expected to feel. But now, so much had happened since we'd stood there on the road and watched the Hineses' car burn; so much had happened even since I'd been at Midnyte with Andy. I hadn't thought about Paolo as much since then, hadn't thought I'd see him again. And now he was here, and I was just as conflicted now as I had been then about what I'd say to him if I saw him again.

"You lied to me, Paolo. They paid you to bring me to them. I know it all."

A silence formed between us. It was so quiet that I could hear the water dripping off his soaked clothes. What was he possibly thinking? Was he recalculating what he wanted to say to me? Figuring out how to excuse his deception? Or enduring the guilt I hoped he felt? In those moments, lightning suddenly daylit the room, and Paolo was illuminated in eerie lavender light. He was looking directly at me, his dark eyes intense in a face that appeared whiter than I knew it was, his jaw set firm in his perfectly-angled face, his shirt damp and clinging. His black waves of hair, longer now . . . my breath caught.

"I gave up, that night," he began when the safety of the darkness enveloped us again. "When we showed up at your house, and you didn't want to talk. I figured that was it when you left. Then this guy came up to me--said he would pay me four grand if I drove you where you wanted to go. I didn't believe him, but he gave me a quarter up front, said I'd get the rest when I'd gotten you there."

"Allen."

"Who?"

"He was a-a teacher--at my school. He worked for them. He's--he's dead, n-now." Why was my voice shaking? Why was I shaking? Why was I so nervous, when he should be the nervous one?

"Nadia . . ."

"So did you get your money, then?" I said it more bitterly than perhaps I felt it.

His breathing became more audible, as if he were becoming defensive, but he took another step toward the bed where I sat. "It's not like that."

I, too, began to breathe more quickly. "How is it, then?" My voice was less firm than I wished to be.

"I gave it back--all the money."

"You did? But . . . why?"

He was right next to me, then. So close . . . I didn't like how insecure I felt . . . but I couldn't back away from the uncertainty, either. I just . . . couldn't.

"Because I want to be with you, not them."

He was standing right there, and as the rain poured, and the darkness closed like wool around us, and the lightning suddenly backlit the curve of his neck and shoulders, he held out a hand, drawing me up to face him when I took it. I knew this was all too perfect . . . there were so many questions. But oh . . . standing there with him right in front of me. . . nothing could've felt more right than this, than him, there, in the velvet darkness of this stormy night.

"So much has happened, Paolo," I almost whispered. "I don't understand any of it. I don't know what it means, or where it's going except somewhere dangerous." I thought of Lucas, of what they'd probably done to make him the way he was, of this storm soaking his body on the beach. "You aren't safe, here. These people will damage you. I'm . . . I'm already so broken. I don't even know who I am."

Paolo swept his dripping hair back, but even in the dark I could tell that the locks just fell back around his face. He seemed to draw closer to me. "Nadia, whatever's happened in the past or happens next, you control it. You choose who you want to be, now."

Who did I want to be? I didn't know, but I did know what I wanted in that moment, as lightning flashed again, and I saw myself reflected in his eyes, and I remembered how perfect he was. Thunder rumbled, and I closed the distance between us, felt the heat coming off his body as the water he was drenched in worked to evaporate, heard his breath quicken. I pressed close to him, and his hands lifted to pull in my waist. Our mouths were inches apart, and then they weren't apart at all. Everything inside me ignited. I lost myself entirely in the moments we spent together, the moments which I won't recount here.

Later--and I don't remember how much later--I woke to weak light peeking through the windows and balcony. For the first time since he'd arrived last night, I could see Paolo clearly. I'd fallen asleep with my head on his chest, his arm around me, and as I sat up, he stirred a little and turned on his side. I looked at his olive skin, his beautiful closed eyes with their dark lashes, his smile--he seemed to smile even in his sleep--and I marveled that he was even there, with me.

I rose and went to the balcony door, slid it aside, and went out. The air was warm enough that I felt fine in my shirtdress. I looked out to the ocean and saw that the waves were rolling soft and slow, the sky was clear, and as the sun rose it would no doubt burn off the low mists that hung over the water. Standing there, it was easy to forget where I was, to forget all the terrible and stupid things that had happened since I'd woken at Oliphant.

Lying there, in the middle of the storming night, Paolo had told me everything. He told me how Allen hadn't trusted him to bring me to Silverton at first and had had him pull over in that vacant car lot so he could see me, that Allen had hidden in that abandoned furniture warehouse and that was why I'd thought I'd seen someone in there. That made me angry, because Paolo had allowed me to think I was crazy when he'd known I wasn't. But I let it go, like I let it all go; with his arms around me, it was easy to do. He said he was supposed to leave me in Silverton--that was the deal he'd made with Allen, and then he'd get the rest of the money. But he hadn't trusted what they'd do to me and reneged, accompanying me into Animas Forks even though he wasn't supposed to. He'd gotten so sick (which had been entirely unexpected on his part), and Allen had had to come rescue him. Paolo had grudgingly gone along with me and who we'd thought was Henry, but there'd been tension, which I'd seen that one time they'd been arguing outside the car. He'd wanted to take me and run, he said, but with Lucas watching our every move, he hadn't known how to do it.

That was why Lucas had said he didn't want to leave Paolo in Lake City; Paolo had become a liability at that point. They couldn't let him go. No doubt the Circuit—or whoever—had arranged to get rid of Paolo, which was why they'd allowed him to find me and ultimately led him to me. What would they do with him, now? Why had they kept him alive? It must have had something to do with me . . . with Henry. He was in danger.

I hated these people . . . whoever they were, whatever they wanted, whyever they were playing games with me and with Henry and with Lucas and now Paolo. We weren't human beings to them; we were just tools, and to what end?

I know I messed up, Paolo had told me quietly, our faces almost touching, in the darkness of the early morning after the storm had died down and rain fell in soft rhythm against the windows. At the time, it seemed like a win to me. Get paid to spend time with you? But I didn't think enough about it.

Paolo called to me. He was awake. I reentered the room and went to him, looked down at him lying there, his hair spread out across the pillow, a soft smile on his face. Sitting on the bed, I sighed at him, returned his smile, though mine had something of doubt in it. We sat with one another for a few moments like that, just laughing about small things, watching the sunlight ignite little specks of dust in its beam.

He sat up, bare-chested, something a little devilish in his expression. "Let's get out of here, Nadia. Let's just go . . . can't we leave? I'll take you far away. I've got nothing back in San Judo, just like you. We can go up North, cross the border. We're close enough, here. We can just camp on the beach, or hitchhike our way up. We can do what we want. No one will know anything about who we are, where we're from. Please--come with me."

Stop everything and just go live far, far away? With Paolo? Was that a life I could envision? Maybe I'd been looking at everything wrong. I'd been so determined to force answers, so sure that my life depended on knowing what had happened, that maybe what I really needed to do was let it all be, focus on what could be rather than what had been. I was alive, I could have a life, I could . . . would they let me? If I promised . . . promised to . . .

But no. The answer to that question . . . if I promised to forget about Henry.

And I had forgotten him. For the first time since leaving him alone in that cabin, I'd really, truly forgotten about him. My plan to search the house at night, to find him whatever the cost--Paolo had caused it all to vanish. It wasn't even as if I kept him in the back of my mind during my night with Paolo; I'd forgotten Henry entirely. Was that so wrong, though? Was it so bad that I wanted, in those moments, to let him go? I knew the answer and was ashamed with myself.

"Paolo . . . I . . ."

He heard my hesitation, turned away from me, picked up and stretched his shirt over his head. A gap had opened between us, I sensed. I didn't want it, but . . . "What's holding you back, then?" He slipped out of the bed and finished dressing.

Standing there, watching Paolo get himself together, I regretted that I couldn't just tell him yes to everything, that I couldn't just tell that woman that we were leaving, we were done with her. I'd felt in the middle of it all--the dark and the storm and him--that maybe I could break away, escape. But in the daylight, when everything seemed so real again, when its hard edges settled, the fantasy of running away was not only improbable it was also impossible. I couldn't let Henry go, not when I felt him physically pulling at me here, in this place. Paolo had to understand that.

There was nothing to say but the truth. I'd told him about Lucas. About everything I'd been through. I'd kept no secrets, except for the hoverboards. I hadn't mentioned those. There were only two, after all . . . "I don't know what's holding me back. All I know is I need to find Henry. After I have him, we can go wherever you want. I don't want to leave here without him."

Paolo came to me, held out his hands, and I took them. "I don't know what to tell you, except that I don't want to leave here without you."

I embraced him, then grabbed Lucas's pack, and Paolo led me out of the room and down the hallway. We were as quiet as we could be, trying even to hold our breath in the silence. Not even a clock ticked . . . nothing made sound of any kind. We found and went down the stairs, went to the door I'd come into the house through, and found it locked. No one was in sight, though--no sign of Ms. Indelicato--so Paolo picked up a chair and threw it against the glass. I was shocked at his courage, but nothing happened beyond a deep shudder in the wall. Of course this glass wouldn't break so easily.

The kitchen--we went through the kitchen. Dishes were there, indicating someone had eaten breakfast, but still no Ms. Indelicato. As we were about to cross into another wing of the house I stopped, grabbed hold of Paolo, pointed across the living room, where a door had been slid aside to exit onto the patio. It was wide open.

We looked at one another, smiled, and hurried to it. There we were, then, the two of us, outside, with the ability to just turn and walk away. And yet . . . was it what they wanted me to do? Just leave Henry?

A voice--I heard that woman's voice, past the pool, past the trees there at the far end of it. Faint, but definite. Who was she talking to?

Paolo held my hand, was starting to lead me toward the other end of the house, but I had to know what was going on. I couldn't go with Paolo. I slipped my hand from his and moved past him, walked along the side of the pool and away from the house, where the decorative wall that blocked the view gave way to a clear shot of the land, spread out left and right and forward; where the lawn turned into wild grasses that went all the way to the end before it dropped precipitously to the beach below; where beyond the cliffs were nothing but sea and sky . . . but that wasn't what caused my heart to stop--

Standing near the edge of the world were four figures--two tall and cloaked in black attire, backs turned toward us, presumably looking out over the ocean. One that was Ms. Indelicato, seemingly attempting to speak to them. And the fourth . . .

The fourth was on his knees between the two black-clad strangers. He looked tall, though, and pale . . . and though I couldn't quite see his face as it was toward the ground, the ash-blond hair was all I needed to see to know him.