LITMIR.BIZ

      “No, sir,” I say.

      He nods and begins patting me down.

      I almost tell him my gun is in the glove compartment, but then I don’t.

      For one, he didn’t ask. And I’d rather he not know it’s there in case I need it.

      My whole body is tensed, poised for something—fight or flight, I’m not sure. Maybe I’m also just inherently resistant to some guy with a gun feeling me up. I see two Marines search the car, and I hear the muffled sounds of Deirdre’s voice, though I can’t make out the words.

      I force myself to let go of my breath and relax a little.

      The Marine feeling me up straightens. He’s young and makes me think of Alex—not because they look anything alike, but because four months ago, this guy could have been in high school.

      “You can put your hands down,” he says to me, adding louder, “we’re clear.”

      Not for the first time, I wonder if Alex would have enlisted if he hadn’t died out behind Park Village. The wave of guilt and sorrow at that thought roils through my body, leaving an ache in my chest and a bitter taste in my mouth. I made so many mistakes, and Alex paid for the worst of them.

      I hear Deirdre open her car door. “Janelle, get in.”

      I don’t hesitate. I jump in and shut my door in one movement.

      My leg bounces a little while I wait for Deirdre to start the car. Her movements are slow and purposeful, so it doesn’t look like we’re running away. Even though I understand the psychology of it, I feel a panicked urge to reach over and do it for her.

      I keep my face blank while the engine roars to life. As we start to drive away, slowly leaving the flares and guns behind, I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

      “We’re fine,” Deirdre says, her shaking voice the only thing that tells me she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.

      “I know,” I say, so she doesn’t worry, but then I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the window, feeling my pulse ring through my ears.

      Either she’s unconvinced, or talking it out will help her calm down, because she continues, “They stopped a driver, alone, fifteen minutes before us. He had no explanation for being out after curfew, and when they asked him to get out of the car, he abandoned the vehicle, disarmed one of the Marines, and gave the guy a bloody nose. They lost him in the dark.”

      “He got away?” I ask, because I’m surprised. The checkpoint Marines are well trained and heavily armed. Probability would suggest running from them would mean injury or death.

      Deirdre nods. “The suspect was male, approximately six feet in height, and in his twenties with shaggy dark hair, blue eyes, and light facial hair. He was dressed completely in black with boots that looked military.”

      She stops, and I wait for her to keep going. There’s obviously more.

      But she doesn’t say anything else, so I look over. Her face is a mask as she stares out the windshield, but then she presses her lips together, slows the car to a stop, and looks over at me.

      She repeats the description, though she doesn’t need to. “Sound like anyone you know?”

      I look away. Of course it does.

      It’s exactly how I would have described a certain agent with the Interverse Agency, the agency that polices the multiverse. An agent who infiltrated the FBI when he was trying to stop Wave Function Collapse. An agent that I don’t have a stellar relationship with.

      Taylor Barclay.