The Hunt

2

Zane Bradshaw

SOMETHING WAS WRONG. Ariane was too quiet.

She’d never been particularly chatty—and I certainly didn’t expect her to be talking up a storm after what she’d been through in the last day or so—but this was different.

In between paranoid checks of the rearview mirror for vehicles following us (none yet), I kept glancing over to make sure she was still there, curled up in the passenger seat, her knees tucked to her chest beneath the oversize black GTX jacket.

Ariane hadn’t really spoken since we’d found the bag. Actually, not since she’d read the letter that was inside. She was clutching it, as if she couldn’t bear to let it go. But she hadn’t said what was in it, and I didn’t want to push her.

It had to be harder than hell to learn your whole life is a lie. I was pretty sure the letter had been more of the same stilted apologies and explanations Mark Tucker had given her in person. I was willing to bet that it sucked as much in replay on paper as it had hearing it live. Plus, the whole tracking device thing. That was messed up.

Still, I wished she’d talk about something, anything. It was almost three thirty in the morning, and the silence was starting to get to me. Nothing but the thoughts circling endlessly in my head and the hum of the tires on the road.

Obviously, we’d found the vehicle that went with the key. Actually, it had sort of found us. Doing our best to keep to the shadows, we’d run from the old Linens-N-Things building and whoever was in the parking lot out front. We hadn’t gone far when Ariane had stopped suddenly and pointed up.

A big, glowing orange sign—U-Store-It—hovered above the treeline in the distance, like a welcome beacon.

Ariane gave a strangled laugh and led me across the street and onto the storage facility grounds, right to Unit 107—the same number tattooed on her back. The lock opened with the smaller key on the ring, and inside the storage locker we found a tarp-draped van. The outside was beat to hell, but the engine started right up with a smoothness that suggested a new engine, or at least one that had been well maintained.

The interior of the van contained only two seats, driver and passenger, leaving the entire cargo area echoey and empty, except for a scrap of carpet covering the metal floor.

Or so I thought, until Ariane climbed back there and started poking around. After just a few minutes, she found a hidden compartment in the floor that was the size of a person.

“A smuggling compartment?” I asked, stunned.

“‘I use them for smuggling. I never thought I’d be smuggling myself in them,’” she murmured, knowing I’d catch the Star Wars reference.

It was more than appropriate for the situation. GTX was an evil empire of sorts, I supposed.

Inside the compartment we discovered more rolls of cash, sleeping bags, baby wipes, a first-aid kit, bottles of water, and protein bars. Mark Tucker really was a badass. He’d thought of everything.

“How did you know to look for that?” I asked Ariane.

She shrugged. “Why else would the back be empty?”

Kind of a good point, just not the way I was used to thinking. For as familiar as Ariane had become to me in the last few days, there were still moments when the differences between us seemed vast and uncrossable. As if we were from two different planets. Which, I guess, we were.

Alien. The word echoed loudly in my head, and I struggled to shut it out before Ariane could hear. I wasn’t freaked out by it so much as shell-shocked. It was one thing to learn that life on other planets existed; I’d kind of suspected as much when I’d bothered to think about it, which wasn’t often. But it was entirely something else to discover that that distant and ambiguous “life” wasn’t a collection of molecules or bacteria visible only beneath a special microscope but was part of the girl who’d sat in front of me in math class. And the things she could do, the things they’d taught her, were both terrifying and amazing.

That queued up a strange sense of panic in me. Not because of what she was but who. I mean, who was I in comparison? How was this going to work with us, whatever we were? People had spent millions of dollars and years of their time just to make sure she’d exist. My own father thought I was a waste of space. Ariane was special—maybe not the kind of special she would choose, but still. I was just a garden-variety human, not even the best one in my family. (That would be Quinn, my older and perfect brother.)

The question was, how long before she realized it and dumped my ass on the side of the road? I grimaced. Or, worse, maybe she’d already put that together and her silence was just her trying to figure out how to tell me.

I shook my head, trying to push down those thoughts. “Almost there,” I said into the quiet, to distract myself and just for something to say. I tapped my thumb against the steering wheel in a nervous fidget. We were well on the Illinois side of the Wisconsin border in a small town. Fox Lake, according to the signs.

Ariane stirred reluctantly in her seat. “We should stop.”

I stared at her. “You’re kidding, right? We’re only forty-five minutes away.” Give or take, according to the map we’d picked up about twenty miles outside of Wingate at an all-night gas station. Without our phones—Ariane had abandoned hers somewhere along the way and she’d removed the battery from mine to prevent them from tracking us—we had to go the low-tech route. No GPS or turn-by-turn directions for us. But considering that we were trying to avoid the most obvious routes into the Chicago area, the map had been more help than I’d expected.

“I don’t think this is the best way to make a first impression,” Ariane said, plucking at the dirt- and blood-smeared front of her formerly white tunic.

“My mom won’t care.” At least, I was pretty sure she wouldn’t, but I hadn’t seen her in more than a year. And in that time, she hadn’t once attempted to contact me, not even over e-mail, where my dad wouldn’t have known about it. I understood why she might feel she couldn’t take me with her—my dad was the chief of police and a local hero. My mom was one of the trailer-trash McDonoughs. If he’d decided to fight her on custody, there would be no question who’d win.

But to not even call? Or send a text?

I felt another sudden flash of anxiety. Maybe this was a mistake. I didn’t know exactly why she’d left. I mean, why that particular night, literally hours before my birthday? My dad claimed that she’d wanted to take me with her, but there really wasn’t much evidence to back that up.

So, we were about to knock on the door of someone who maybe didn’t even want us—well, me—there.

“Besides, it’d be better if this looked more like a surprise visit instead of us fleeing town,” Ariane was saying. “Too many questions otherwise.” She glanced over at me, her unusually dark eyes serious. I was getting used to her natural eye color. There were colored contact lenses in the emergency bag—the same type, presumably, that she’d worn every day to school—but she hadn’t bothered to put them in. I liked that. Made me feel as though she trusted me, as though I was on the inside of this secret and she wanted me there.

I realized she was looking over at me, waiting for a response.

I nodded hastily. She had a point. Explaining everything to my mom would involve either some major eye-opening revelations about the existence of life on other planets that I wasn’t sure Ariane was ready to get into or some quick talking around the facts. Either way, we hadn’t prepped for that. And my mom, no matter how much she may have changed in the last year, was not stupid.

Stopping for a few hours to get some rest and our stories straight seemed like a pretty good idea. Assuming we could find somewhere.

“You, uh, have any particular place in mind?” I asked. We appeared to be on what passed for the main drag in this town, tiny even by Wingate standards. Most everything was closed. And I had no idea what Ariane was thinking. An empty parking lot? A motel?

My mind shied away from the latter option. It had implications that I didn’t want to put out there. She might think I was angling for more than the chance to sleep with my legs stretched out.

Never mind the fact that the idea of hooking up while GTX was kicking down doors and burning up the highway hunting for us was kind of ridiculous.

The mental image of just that—the two of us together—flashed into my head with crystal clarity, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Okay, it was ridiculous and maybe a little hot. We were alive, we’d made it this far. And all that life-and-death adrenaline was apparently still flowing through my system.

Remembering the few times we’d made out in my truck, my heart stuttered with anticipation. Of course, that was before I’d known the truth about her, about where she came from.

Would it be different now? I didn’t think so. She’d stood in front of me, protecting me at her own expense. Nobody had ever done that for me.

My fingers itched suddenly to feel the smoothness of her skin again, a chance to see for myself that she was actually unharmed.

A quiet sniffle came from the other side of van. “I was thinking more about a hot shower.”

I looked over to see Ariane trying to smile at me even as she wiped under her eyes. She was crying.

“Ariane, what’s wrong?” I asked, bewildered. Was she reading the letter again? No, it was still folded in her hand. “What happened—”

I clamped my mouth shut, the realization clicking in a second too late. She’d “heard” me. The motel, me wanting to touch her, the memories of us kissing.

My face burned. “Oh my God, I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I was just thinking about it. I would never have—”

She gave a choked laugh. “Stop apologizing. It was nice.”

“Nice enough to make you cry,” I said.

“I’m just tired, that’s all. Kind of a long day.” But her gaze didn’t quite meet mine, and I felt like an asshole. Ariane was dealing with her whole life falling apart, and I was the jerk fixated on being in a motel.

I wanted to apologize again, but her focus had shifted to the street. She leaned forward in her seat, watching.

“There,” she said, after a minute. She pointed to a neon blue VACANCY sign flashing in front of a stubby two-story building on the left side of the street. Definitely not a five-star establishment but, judging from the sheer number of minivans in the parking lot with pool floaties strapped to the roofs, safe.

I pulled in and found a space near the glass door marked OFFICE with another neon sign.

“No,” Ariane said quickly. “Somewhere closer to the back of the lot, in the shadows. I don’t want the desk manager to see us.”

I hesitated, then drove farther to a spot that matched her description. “Uh, you’re not planning on breaking in, are you?” I asked, putting the van in park. Kind of a stupid question, I guess, but I had to ask. I knew she could do it. I’d seen her unlock an elevator in a secure facility; I was pretty sure a motel door wouldn’t even be a challenge. But there were other issues, ones I was betting she’d never think of.

She looked at me, surprised. “The fewer people who witness—”

I sighed. “Some of these places, they have a system that alerts them if the door on an unoccupied room is opened without a key.”

She raised her eyebrows in question.

“Homecoming after-party last year at the Fairfield. The lock on the door to the adjoining room was broken, and Jonas decided to expand the party.” I shrugged. “Which was fine, until someone went out through the main room door. The key card system notified the manager, and she called the cops.” Which had included my father. I grimaced at the memory.

Ariane nodded thoughtfully. “Okay.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked. What Ariane had said about getting cleaned up and making this look more like a normal visit made sense, but I still felt like I was missing something.

“As much as I’m sure about anything,” she murmured with a strained smile that somehow spoke of sadness and set off an alarm in the back of my brain, though I didn’t know why.

Before I could ask her, she was digging into the duffel bag at her feet, pulling out the baby wipes she’d added from the secret compartment and the package of contact lenses.

With an economy of motion, she wiped off her face and hands, using the mirror on the sun visor as a guide. Even in the dim light, I could see dozens of scrapes and cuts on her face, neck, and hands. And I noticed, for the first time, how careful she was with her left arm. The light was dim in here, but I could see blood, a lot of it, crusted on the edge of her sleeve, turning the small portion sticking out from the cuff of her black jacket from white to a dark brownish red.

“Ariane…your arm,” I said, horrified.

“It stopped bleeding a while ago,” she said, tucking her sleeve under her jacket with a wince. “It’s fine.”

I wasn’t so sure about that—and I didn’t know how she could be either, since I hadn’t seen her so much as look at the wound—but her tone brooked no argument.

She pulled the top off a set of contacts and slid the lenses in, her eyes watering as she blinked.

“Be right back,” she said, zipping her jacket up and brushing off the front of it.

I stared at her like she was crazy, belatedly realizing her intentions. “You can’t go in there.”

“I’m the only one with a name that won’t attract attention,” she said, waving her new U.S. passport at me.

“Yeah, but he’s not going to rent a room to you.”

“Why not?” she demanded.

I paused, trying to figure out how to say this without hurting her feelings. Oh hell. “You look about twelve, particularly in that.” I nodded toward the oversize jacket that covered her from shoulders to knees, hiding her lab-issued clothing.

She frowned. “If my identification says I’m eighteen, he can’t deny—”

“He’s not going to care about anything but covering his ass, and you scream teenage runaway or worse.” I unbuckled my seat belt. “Let me do it.” People always thought I was older than I was just because of my height. And this, at least, was a way I could help.

She shook her head. “Your dad may have already reported you missing. We can’t risk it.”

I made a face. “Doubt it. That would mean admitting something was wrong at our house.” I held my hand out. “Just give me the cash, and I’ll take care of it.” I had an emergency credit card, but absolutely nothing would bring my dad down on us faster than using that.

She wavered, and then dug into the bag and pulled out a roll of money. “Stay calm, be confident, and ask for more than you want,” she said. “Basic rules of negotiation.”

“Got it.” I pulled a few bills off and stuffed them in my pocket—pulling out a wad of hundreds would only raise more questions and possibly the amount of whatever bribe I might have to give to get us a room—and reached for the door handle.

“Wait, come here.” Ariane gestured at me to come closer, producing another baby wipe from the package.

She leaned in, dabbing carefully at my face, her forehead pinched with concern. “You’re so scratched up.” She sounded as though she felt responsible.

“Had to make the other side match,” I joked, making a vague gesture to the stitched cut on my left cheek, courtesy of a flying beer bottle the other night. At least, I hoped it was still stitched. Honestly, until now, I hadn’t really stopped to think about what hurt, and now that I did, everything ached and burned. “I’ll survive.”

That didn’t seem to reassure her. Frowning, Ariane ran her hands through my hair, plucking out a few leaves and dropping them to the floor.

Under her touch, I wanted nothing more than to stay right here.

She lowered her hands slowly, her gaze searching my face, looking for what I wasn’t sure. But her eyes seemed brighter, shinier, closer to tears than they’d been.

“All better?” I asked, my voice thick.

“Yes.” She reached out as if she might caress my cheek, not for the purpose of cleaning me up but just to do it, but then she seemed to catch herself and turned to stare out the window instead. “Be careful, okay?” she said.

A little baffled by the quick change in her mood, I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ll be right back.”

I climbed out of the van, my legs protesting the sudden movement after hours in the cramped space behind the wheel, and headed for the office door.

As soon as I got about ten feet away, the strangest feeling came over me, the insistent intuition that Ariane would be gone by the time I returned.

No. She wouldn’t do that. Would she?

I looked over my shoulder at the van and waved, but I couldn’t see whether she waved back.

Better just to hurry up and not chance it.

An old-fashioned bell rang as soon as I pushed open the door. After a long moment, a big dude in a flannel shirt appeared behind the registration desk.

“Help you?” he asked, rubbing his eyes with a meaty fist.

“Yeah, man, road trip gone wrong, you know?” I shook my head. “Got lost, flat tire, the whole deal.” I gestured at my banged-up face. “Gotta get some rest before I keep going.” I could hear myself rambling and yet couldn’t seem to stop. What the hell. I used to be good at this kind of stuff.

He eyed me carefully, and I worked to meet his gaze and not fidget.

Then he gave a yawn, one that made his jaw crack. “Credit card.” He made a give-it-to-me gesture.

“Cash. But I’ve got ID.” I slid two bills across the counter and pulled my driver’s license from my wallet.

He looked at the money and my license and then back at me. “No trouble from you, though. Got it?”

“No, not at all,” I said. “Just need a quiet place to sleep for a few hours.”

He grunted. “All I got is a double. And checkout’s at eleven.”

He tapped at the computer halfheartedly for a few seconds, then the money disappeared into his pocket without any mention of change, even though there was no way this place cost two hundred bucks a night. Good enough.

“Room 205.” He shoved key cards across the scarred Formica counter to me. “Second floor, on the end.”

That had been easier than I’d thought it would be. Then again, the guy was half-asleep. And/or completely apathetic. I wasn’t sure which, but either way it worked to our advantage.

I nodded my thanks, took the cards, and headed back out into the parking lot, trying not to look as if I was rushing.

The van was where I’d left it. The relief almost made me dizzy.

Once the manager could no longer see me, I picked up my pace and trotted directly for the passenger-side door.

Ariane, watching for me, opened it as I approached.

“Room 205. Second floor, on the end,” I said.

“Any problems?” she asked, her gaze flicking between me and the parking lot, staying alert for someone approaching, no doubt.

“Nope.”

She nodded and swung down from the van, the duffel bag over her shoulder.

I led the way up a creaky set of wooden stairs that bent beneath my weight to the last door on that level. After a momentary struggle with the key card, we were in.

The room was small and seriously fugly with carpet in a shade between aqua and green that hurt my eyes. It smelled damp and mildewy, like laundry left in the washer for a few days—thanks, most likely, to the actively dripping AC unit on the far wall. Still, the second the door shut behind me, I felt better, safer. It was probably a false sense of security, but I found it reassuring all the same.

Ahead of me, Ariane carefully placed the duffel bag on a battered-looking armchair near the foot of the queen-size bed. The lone bed in the room. A dresser with a TV bolted to the top of it and a bedside table with a grimy-looking phone were the only other pieces of furniture.

“They didn’t have a room with two beds, sorry,” I said, my words sounding absurdly loud in the small room.

Without looking at me, Ariane shook her head. “It’s all right.”

Trying not to crowd her, I took an extra step to the right to turn on the lights in the bathroom and look around. “Not too much worse than the locker room at school,” I said, attempting to keep the mood light. “But—”

Ariane was in front of me when I turned toward the main room.

“Sorry,” I said, and tried to get out of the way, feeling as ungainly and awkward as I had when I’d first shot up over six feet.

She moved with me, her gaze meeting mine directly, and it took me a second to realize she’d done it deliberately.

Rising up on her tiptoes to examine me more closely, Ariane sucked a breath in through her teeth.

“Sit,” she said, pointing at the toilet.

When I frowned at her, she held up the first-aid kit. I hadn’t even noticed it in her hand. “I can’t reach you unless you’re sitting,” she said.

She was still worried about my face. I shook my head. “No way, your arm—”

“Looks much worse than it is,” she said calmly.

Oh no, I’d accepted that answer before because I’d been caught off guard. But now?

I folded my arms across my chest. “You first.” I could be stubborn too.

Ariane glared at me. “I can take care of it myself.” But she pulled her arm closer to her body, protectively, as if I might try to grab it. Which told me that she was hurt worse than she wanted to let on.

“One-handed?” I asked, doing my best to keep my voice flat, even. She seemed to respond better to logic than emotional pleas when it came to her own well-being. I could play that game. Part of me wondered if she just wasn’t used to it, used to someone caring about her.

“It’s my left arm. I’m right-handed,” she argued.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll be no problem.”

Her mouth tightened. “I said I’m—”

“The longer you argue with me, the longer we’re going to stand here,” I said, leaning against the counter.

Her fingers tightened on the first-aid kit as if she were contemplating throwing it at my head.

“And the longer my injuries go untreated.” I gave her a pitiful look.

She heaved an irritated sigh. “You’re making this much more difficult than it needs to be,” she snapped, thrusting the first-aid kit at my chest as she pushed past me to sit on the closed lid of the toilet.

“I’m really, really good at that,” I said, unperturbed. “Or so I hear, anyway.”

“You don’t have to look so smug,” she grumbled as I set the kit down and washed my hands.

“Are you kidding? I think that’s the only argument I’ve ever won with you. I’m going to put it on my college applications in the Special Accomplishments section,” I said.

“Funny,” she said. “Besides, you didn’t win. I quit. There’s a difference.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever lets you sleep at night.” I dried my hands on one of the threadbare white towels on the counter.

“How are you with blood?” she challenged, unzipping her jacket and shrugging it off her shoulders.

“I play lacrosse. I think I’ll be fine,” I said dryly. “Plus, my dad comes from the school of ‘rub a little dirt on it and get back out there,’ so I’m not going to faint on you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

That, for some reason, seemed to convince her, though she didn’t seem happy about it. “Deliberately rubbing dirt in a wound seems foolish.”

“It’s a saying. A sports thing,” I amended, since people did more than say it. They actually did it.

She raised her eyebrows and shook her head, dismissing it, no doubt, as one of the many things we did that made no sense.

Gingerly, she pulled her arm out of the jacket sleeve, and though I’d been expecting signs of injury, this was far worse than I’d imagined. Her shredded left sleeve was plastered to her skin with dried and drying blood.

I inhaled sharply. “Shit, Ariane.” I knelt in front of her for a better look, the uneven floor tiles digging into my knees.

The tattered fabric had adhered to the entire underside of her arm, wrist to elbow. I couldn’t even tell where her injury was. But I knew there’d be no pulling her sleeve up without breaking open the wound that had caused all this bleeding.

“Are you, uh, wearing something under that?” I gestured awkwardly to her shirt.

“Are you trying to talk me out of my clothes?” she asked, her jaw tight and her gaze fixed solidly at a point over my head.

“No! I just…” I paused, looking at her tense expression and the way she was very deliberately avoiding looking down at her arm. “Do you have a problem with blood?” I asked, amazed.

“In this quantity? Just my own,” she said in that cool, detached tone that reminded me, of course, she likely wouldn’t have a problem with anyone else’s blood. She’d been trained to—

I pushed that thought away before I could finish it. “The problem is, I don’t want to make it worse by just yanking your sleeve up.”

She flinched.

“So I want to try to wet it and then peel it away from your arm. But I think that would be easier from the other direction. Like this.” I mimed the action of pulling my shirt over my head and down my arm.

She nodded reluctantly, her tangled hair sliding in front of her pale face.

“But if you’re not wearing—”

“It’s fine.” She wiggled her right arm into the inside of her shirt and hitched that side up to her shoulder.

Realizing belatedly that I probably didn’t need to be six inches away for this part of the process, I stood and turned my back. I could give her some privacy, at least.

I grabbed a couple of the small towels from the counter and soaked them in warm water, working very hard to concentrate on that, blocking my worst impulses that were urging me to watch her undress in the mirror.

“Okay,” she said a few moments later, and I faced her.

Her injured arm was carefully balanced on her leg, her discarded shirt piled on top of it. A white sports bra covered her breasts. Her hair was more tangled and mussed than before, and her shoulders were curved inward, her free arm wrapped around her waist protectively.

The tattoo on her right shoulder—I had been right about that all along, though also very, very wrong—was just visible.

I’d seen cheerleaders wearing little more than what she had on. But somehow it mattered more now that it was Ariane wearing it. I snagged one of the bath towels from the rack above her head and draped it over her shoulders.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

I cracked open the first-aid kit and pulled out antibacterial cream, packages of gauze bandages, and tape.

“Gloves,” she said sharply.

I froze. “Is that necessary?” Even with the evidence right in front of me, I kept forgetting that she was more—and less—than just the girl who’d sat in front of me in Algebra II last year.

“I don’t know. They always wore gloves in the lab.” She lifted her chin, meeting my eyes defiantly. She was going to fight me on this, I could tell.

So I dug out the gloves and put them on before grabbing one of the wet towels from the sink and kneeling in front of her once again.

Slowly, inch by painstaking inch, I soaked the fabric and gently pulled it away from her skin.

She held very still, preternaturally silent. I didn’t want to think about what had happened in her early life at the lab to teach her that kind of stoicism.

Several angry slashes and ugly bruises decorated her wrist at intervals, but the worst was a thick gash across the meat of her arm, just up from her elbow. Her jacket should have protected her, but it was about ten sizes too big and had obviously fallen down or been pulled away by stray branches. “I really think you should have stitches, Ari,” I said, carefully tilting her arm toward the light.

“And somehow I think going to a hospital right now would be more dangerous,” she said, sounding slightly strained.

“They can’t have someone at every hospital and urgent care clinic,” I pointed out.

She shook her head. “It’s not worth the risk. Just patch me up. I’ll be fine.”

I disagreed, but short of bodily removing her from the room, which I doubted she’d allow, there wasn’t much I could do. I wiped away as much of the blood as I could, smeared the antibacterial cream on gauze pads, and applied them carefully, taping the edges to keep them in place.

“It’ll heal fast,” she said softly. “I promise. I’ll be better before you are.” She reached out and touched my face, her fingertip lightly tracing my stitches from the other night. “Not such a pretty boy anymore.” She gave me a sad but teasing smile.

I started to protest that that label had never applied to me, but then her thumb brushed the corner of my mouth and the air went electric. I turned my cheek into her caress, pursuing it. And when I pressed a kiss against the center of her palm, she caught her breath.

Her eyes were dark behind the blue-tinted lenses and seemed to be growing darker. Her gaze dropped to my mouth, and she bit her lip.

I swallowed a groan, and with my heart pounding too hard, I leaned in.

But then she dropped her hand and turned away.

Confused, I pulled back. “What’s—”

“I should…I want to shower. Get the GTX off of me,” she said with a forced smile, not quite looking at me.

My face flushed. “Sure, yeah, okay.” I stood up hastily. “Sorry.” I peeled off the gloves and tossed them in the garbage can beneath the sink.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” she said, pulling the towel tighter around her shoulders.

Except, clearly, there was. I backed out of the room, tugging the door shut after me.

Had I pushed too far? I didn’t think so. She’d been right there with me up until the end, when she’d withdrawn.

I shook my head, and walked the few short steps to the bed and flopped down on my back.

It would make perfect sense that she would want to clean up, after GTX, after the woods, after the Dumpster.

I made a face. I probably didn’t smell so great either.

But it was more than that. I was missing something; I could feel it. I just didn’t know what it was.

That was maybe the most frustrating thing about all of this. Ariane could hear what I was thinking at any time, if she wanted to. But I was stuck trying to puzzle her out with only the barest clues. I’d thought I’d had her figured out before, and I just kept discovering new facets and shadowed corners, previously hidden to me.

Though, honestly, if pushed, I’d have to admit that I actually kind of liked it, moments of complete and utter bewilderment aside.

Or maybe it was just that I really liked her, enigmas and all.