John had left my backpack by the front door. My anger with him dissipated, but only a little bit. I hadn't stayed in that house a second longer than I had to when I had finally found a way to get myself out of that hole.

And my statement about the house being held together by a nail wasn't entirely accurate. It was being held together by one wooden beam and a nail.

I keep my head down as I walk through the small town in front of me. I'd managed to hitchhike a ride with a friendly older couple and they'd driven me here. It has a bus station so I can get out of here without a problem.

But seriously, no one should ever hitchhike. You never know when if you'll get picked up by an ax murderer.

This town has a good amount of various different stores and I had picked up a new set of clothes-because John is an ass and got mine all dirty when he threw me down a hole-and a new cellphone.

I dial one of the few numbers I have memorized and place the phone over my ear as I walk to the bus station. Dismay fills me when I get the familiar robotic voice telling me to leave a message.

"Quinn, it's me again. You're not picking up and it's beginning to worry me," I say. I pause as I search for the words to say. As I think about everything that's happened in the past few days. As I think of Ryder.

Something inside me hurts as I think of him. As I remember that he's gone and not coming back. I refuse to identify it though and blink away the tears I didn't even realize were filling my eyes.

I rub a hand across my forehead. "I messed up," I finally continue. "And I really need your help now. I need a place to hide out," I say. "I asked you before if I could borrow the castle, but I never got an answer. But that's where I'm going to be headed now, I just . . ." I trail off. "I just need someone to talk to. Someone to help."

I blow out a long breath. "I'm going to have this phone for a while so call me back, please. If I get a new phone I'll call again so you have my new number . . . and I wish you'd answer. Well, talk to you later . . . hopefully."

I end the call and slide the phone into my pocket as I walk into the bus station. I pay for my ticket and take a seat all the way in the back. I pull the hood of my new jacket down over my head and slump low in the seat, crossing my arms across my chest. My backpack is set on the only seat next to me so that no one takes it and I can be alone with my thoughts.

I close my eyes and lean my head against the cool glass of the window, my eyes staring out but not quite seeing anything as I continue to reply Ryder's face and his aiming the gun at me when he found out who I was.

I shouldn't have allowed him to come with me. I should have left him behind. I could have locked him the storage unit for a while, but likely that wouldn't have been a good idea with all the experimental technology I have stashed in there.

Who knows what he would have done.

I could have finally handcuffed him to a ceiling fan. I still want to do that. As bad as an idea as it may be.

Hell, I'd get a few minutes of amusement from it. Though, I know it's completely impractical. Not to mention it's highly unlikely the fan would even spin with his weight attached as he hung there like a dead fish.

I mean, at least I'd get a laugh out of it.

I wait while the rest of the people board the bus and stare out the window as it pulls out of the station and starts down the road.

I can't explain the feeling I have as the bus drives away. After all, I've done this all a thousand times before and yet, this time, something's not right. Something's missing.

I get as comfortable as I can in my seat and lean my head back against the window once again as I close my eyes and will myself to fall into a dreamless sleep while I wait for the bus to reach its destination. It's supposed to be a long bus ride, so I might as well get a few hours rest before I get to where I'm going.

I find myself thinking of Ryder, of everything before I finally drift off to sleep.

***

I step off the bus and tug on the straps of my backpack as if making sure they're in place. I stay standing on the sidewalk and watch the bus pull away after a few minutes, off to the next stop on its list.

I run a hand through my hair before pulling it back and into a ponytail. I don't bother trying to pin my bangs back as well and start walking down the street, looking for a place to stop and pick up some food and then to find a hotel for the night . . . or the week.

It's not as if I have anyone on my tail right this second. I can get a hotel for the week, take care of everything with John and then relax for a few days.

I mentally scoff. Relax? Me? Yeah right.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, checking for any texts or missed calls. There are none.

"Damn it, Quinn," I mutter.

I dial the number again and press the phone to my ear. Once again I'm greeted by the stupid robotic voice telling me to leave a message.

"Quinn, I'm really beginning to worry about you now. Please, call me back." I end the call and slip the phone back into my pocket.

On second thought . . .

I pull the phone back out and dial the number once more, not surprised when no one answers.

"Quinn Delaney, you pick up the damn phone and call me back. I do not have the time to worry about what's happening with you while I'm trying to keep myself alive. If I don't hear from you in the next few hours I'm going to be boarding the first plane or taking the first bus out to Colorado to hunt you down." I hang up and glare at the phone in my hand before zipping it up in my backpack.

I continue on down the streets, keeping my eyes open as I pass by people. I keep my eyes peeled for the familiar tattoo . . . or Volkov. Though I doubt he's had the chance to track me here yet.

I continue walking until I spot a hotel that's far enough on the outskirts of the city that there's not much activity around it, and yet close enough to the city that I can get away if need be.

I check in and get a room on the first floor. There isn't much in it, but that doesn't bother me. It does have more than most of the hotels I've ever stayed at, but still not much.

There's a small desk and chair in the corner, a dresser and tv against the far wall, a bed in the center of the room and a small kitchen set up on the other end of the room.

I toss my backpack on the bed before sprawling across next to it, my eyes closing on their own. I push myself up before I can fall asleep and decide to truly rid myself of the dirt-and blood-I'd acquired over the past few days.

I grab a towel and head into the bathroom for a shower. Unfortunately, I find out pretty quickly that the water has two temperatures. Freezing cold or scalding hot. No in between. Also, it's very hard to wash yourself with a bullet wound in your shoulder.

I'm grumbling curses as I step out of the shower and grab my glasses and my towel. I get dressed as quickly as possible and then walk back into the main room, pulling a comb from my backpack and sitting on the edge of the bed, combing through the knots still left in my hair.

My mind wanders. Wanders to any options to keep Volkov from killing any more people because of me. True, John's going to be hunting him down, but Volkov is just about as good at disappearing as I am. So, who knows how long it'll take for him to get taken out.

I groan and flop back on the bed, the only thing I can think of to detour Volkov from my family would be me turning myself it. Not exactly something I'm jumping to do, but the thought's always been in my mind. Maybe that's why it no longer scares me as much as it should. At least then Volkov would have no reason to hunt down my family or hurt anyone else because of me.

Sarah.

I close my eyes against the tears that threaten to spill. True, Sarah and I weren't what'd you call best friends, but we had been friends none the less. Thought we hadn't kept in touch. After she and I got out of the gang we'd gone our separate ways. Until she risked her life to help me and ultimately paid the price.

Another thought suddenly pops into my head. Of course, I don't have to turn myself into Volkov. I could march right up to, say . . . FBI headquarters.

That would be a whole different kind of disastrous.

What am I suppose to do once I get there anyway?

Yes, hello this is your lucky day. I've decided you save you the cat and mouse chase and turn myself it. Who am I? Oh, haha, funny story . . .

Oh yeah, that'd go over well.

"I am doomed," I mutter as I cover my face with my hands. I try to sink further into the bed, hoping the monster under the bed will just drag me away into the abyss. It doesn't happen. Surprise, surprise.

Of course, even if I did turn myself in to the FBI or police, it would take all of two minutes of sitting a jail cell before another hit would be put on me and I'd be killed. Either by a dirty cop or another inmate. Oh, joy. Can you hear my enthusiasm?

The probability I survive after turning myself in is low. Actually, it's beyond low. The probability I survive on my own like this is low. The probability I survive jail is nonexistent.

Just sign my damn death certificate now. And make sure my tombstone says something like, Well, I tried, or better yet, It's a shame you never found the money . . .

How pissed off do you think Volkov would be if that were written on my tombstone?

Well, let's be honest, there wouldn't be a tombstone after that. He would've smashed it into oblivion.

Turning myself in is not the best option, but it just might lead John right to Volkov since he'd no doubt come right to me. Though, what would Ryder think of this plan?

Ryder.

For a moment I feel like I forget how to breathe and then I can practically hear him telling me how utterly stupid I am to come up with the plan . . . and suddenly I remember how to breathe.

Ryder wouldn't care, I tell myself. He'd toss me in jail himself if he got the chance. Maybe he wouldn't have . . . before, but now? He'd skip away merrily after he locked the cell door on me. Him and his stupid sunglasses and nicknames.

I jump to my feet and begin to pace the length of my room from one end to the other.

I should not be missing him. I should not miss his stupid nicknames for me or the stupid sunglasses that hide his eyes. The way he smiles devilishly or the way his eyes light up with mischief practically all the time. And yet, I do.

I come to an abrupt stop in the middle of the room as all these thoughts flow through my head. I feel my heart speed up and my breathing becomes more shallow as all these thoughts consume me.

No, I immediately tell myself.

There is no way in hell . . .

I'm such an idiot.

This is not happening.

I find myself having an entire conversation that isn't even audible, just completely in my head. A conversation between the rational and irrational parts of my brain.

I'm wrong. I just am. I wouldn't be that big of an idiot, rational me tells myself.

You're never wrong.

I'm losing my mind. That's the only explanation.

If this is what you consider to be losing your mind, I'd hate to see what would happen if you actually lost your mind.

This is just a bad dream. I'm going to wake up anytime now and realize that all of this never happened.

Fat chance. But have fun swimming in your lake of denial.

I groan and slap my hands over my ears as if that'll somehow make things better. I go back to pacing across the floor. My movements are much more rapid than before. And I'm also seriously considering slapping some common sense into myself.

Not that it'll help, but it might snap me out of it long enough for me to think straight.

Think straight. That's clearly what lead to this problem to begin with. Lack of thinking straight.

I find myself staring out the window, but I'm not seeing what's in front of me. I'm seeing what's not there. Ryder. I can see his face clearly. As if he's standing right in front of me, but that's just my wishful thinking.

My heart continues to pound in my chest as my mind flies back over the thoughts going through my head for the past few minutes.

Because some way, somehow, I've gone and started caring about Ryder. Not in a way where he's just been the person with me and I'd rather not watch another person die. Not in a way like we're the best of friends. Not in a way like we're siblings. Oh no, that would make things so much easier.

No. I've started caring about him in an entirely different way.

I must be insane.

In a way that might-a big might-start with the letter L . . .

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