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We find a beautiful French chateau manor on the edge of town and convince its owners to let us stay there. A young husband and wife duo, no kids and a couple of servants. We caught the two pulling into their attached garage before Willow and Janie pounced on them.

The team barely bats an eyelash at the fact that we're compelling people against their will to give up their home for us. "It's for a good cause," Willow tells me when she catches the unease on my face after she brainwashed the rich couple in their spacious garage. "They'll thank us after we save the world from Blanks."

"Can we also say that taking one of their cars is for a good cause?" Pablo says as he circles one of the handful of luxury cars, running his hand over its sleek black surface. His eyes are hungry. "You know, in case we ever need to outrun someone."

Marcus watches him and then grins slowly. "Sure. Why the hell not?"

"Marcus!" Willow protests. "It's one thing to take money, but a luxury car?"

"It's not like they're going to miss it. Look at him."

He steps up to the husband, who is practically drooling thanks to Janie's mesmerism. The man is dressed in a fitted black suit and shoes that are polished to a shine. His black hair is carefully slicked back in a way that reminds me of Sam, but at the same time, there's this softness about him that was never there in my stepfather.

"I bet he was born with a silver spoon in his cocky mouth," Marcus says, staring down the dazed man from his height. "He's used to getting everything he wants. He's spent his whole life stepping all over the little people because it makes him feel like a man. You know what, Will? I don't feel bad for him. We'll take what we need."

Jones and Pablo grin in answer. Even Janie is smirking like she agrees with him, and Willow looks resigned now, like she's used to giving in. Marcus turns away from the man and walks into the rest of the house. We follow after him, even the husband and wife, who haven't uttered a word since they threatened the cops on us.

I trudge along quietly, still off-balance after what went down at the restaurant. I know my opinions are unwelcome in this group, but I can't help the prickles of unease. Is this normal for us? This Robin Hood act of stealing from the rich—except we take the wealth for ourselves and use it to finance our excursions across the country? How do I fit into that? I can't imagine being on board with us being criminals.

Says the killer surrounded by other killers.

The rest of the house is just as impressive. The first floor is mostly concrete and imported marble, but the second is all red wood framing and bay windows that give a scenic view of the tree lined landscape. The furniture is antique and the paintings on the walls look like they could pay for my college tuition. We find six bedrooms in total, including the red-themed master bedroom, and bathrooms with luxurious showers that make my bones ache with longing.

Once the servants are unwittingly recruited like their employers, Pablo and his friends go in search of treasures. I tail Willow as she wanders around one of the furnished guest rooms, waiting until we're relatively alone before saying, "Can we talk?"

Her hand freezes on the closet door just as she was about to pull it open. "Sure."

I can see her trying to make herself taller, stronger, but there's also a tremoring thread running through her that hints at her nervous state.

For the first time since I woke up, I take her in completely. She has on dark pants and a long coat, and her fluffy white-blond hair is half-concealed beneath a black knit cap. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and her hazel eyes border on golden today.

She looks like a normal teenage girl, not like someone with the ability to rob people of their lives. I remember the three of us: Willow, Carson, and me. The way we grew so close, almost as if we'd been friends for years. Those weeks in the stress facility were bearable because of her and Carson, and part of me would give anything to go back to that.

"You've lied and tricked me twice," I begin. "The first time, you didn't tell me who you really were when we met at the facility. And this time, you took my memories without my permission. Both times, you robbed me of the chance to remember key moments in my life."

"I had my reasons," she says tersely.

The sound of kids talking and exploring the house gets closer to us. I turn to the door, expecting someone to pop in, but the noise moves past us. "I know. Despite everything, all of the deception and secrecy, I know you're not a bad person, Willow. I don't think you were putting on an act when you became friends with Carson and me at the facility. I think that was the real you. You've had to become someone else because of Sam, but you care about the people around you and you want to save them to the best of your ability."

The tension drains from her face, making her look younger than she is. Her voice grows soft with anxiety. "April, you have to understand I never would've taken your memories if I thought there was another way."

"Was I that bad?" I ask in a pained tone, hoping she doesn't realize I'm fishing for information. If I can't force my way to the truth, maybe I can appeal to her softer side and talk it out of her.

She goes over to the queen bed covered with a downy cream quilt and sits on the edge. "Bad enough that I can't tell you too many details in case you go back to the way you were. You were stressed out about everything. The things we knew about and the things we didn't."

I wonder if she means my side adventures with Davey.

"What can you tell me?" I ask.

"I meant what I said before. You weren't safe with us. Can you imagine what it's like to live with someone, not knowing when they'll blank and attack you? Maybe some of us were willing to risk our lives for you, but the rest of those kids weren't. And they've had a lot of practice killing Blanks."

"So you hypnotized me to save me?"

She tilts her head back and looks me straight in the eye. "Yes."

I hold her gaze a moment longer, searching for a crack that'll reveal some hidden motive. I don't find it. "I believe you. But where does that leave me? I'm fumbling, Willow. I don't know up from down. Sitting on my hands and keeping my mouth shut isn't my style. It hasn't been since . . . Sam."

She flinches and looks away. "I know it's not. Give it time. You'll find your rhythm. And if you find a balance, you might not blank anymore. Thanks to the metamorphosis inhibitor serum, you beat it the first time when you jumped from that bridge. You can do it again."

"Sam told you about that?" I ask.

"No. You did."

I'm surprised at that. There's no way I would've shared something such a vulnerable moment in my life with her unless I really trusted her. "Do you miss Sam?"

She smiles weakly. "I do, and I don't. I'm not sure that makes sense."

I laugh at how alike we are. I'm too familiar with the feeling of missing someone you loathe. "It makes perfect sense." My humor fades. "And Alec? Have you seen him since?"

I might as well have punched her in the stomach. She looks destroyed, and it takes a long, shuddering moment for her to pull herself together. "No. Not since."

Since. I guess that's as far as either of us is willing to go to broach the subject. She gets up and mumbles something about meeting up with the others and takes off downstairs.

"Okay."

I watch her go to the door and then stop. She turns back to me. Reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out her phone. "Have this for now. Passcode is 5329."

"You're not afraid I'll find something in here I'm not supposed to?" I joke.

She smirks. "You're not going to get any dirt on me. I keep my phone clean." Her expression turns serious again. "But maybe it'll help you in some other way."

With that, she's gone.

I'm lying on a lounge chair next to the giant swimming pool behind the house, my right hand absently smoothing along the ridged surface. We've been here for one hour and forty minutes so far. I've spent half of that time exploring the lavish manor and the other half trying to get close enough to the others without being detected.

Marcus left about half an hour ago and returned with Lisa. After that, the house crashers decided to have a meeting in the state-of-the-art rec room in the basement. I made it to the door before the others made it clear they didn't feel comfortable having me sit through something important after my breakdown at the restaurant.

"We don't want to do anything to trigger her, right?" Pablo sneered.

So here I am, playing along even though I'm regretting not punching his stupid mouth. Willow's advice is stuck in my head. You'll find your rhythm. Maybe I will. Maybe I need to prove to everyone that I'm not a threat anymore. I need to show them that I'm a team player, that I put us first. Which is a bitter pill to swallow when I'm being treated like I'm not part of that collective, but being ignored is a step up from being dead.

I take a deep breath and release it slowly. The feeble sun slightly warms my face and neck against the cold wind. The aches all over my body have returned with vengeance now that I'm not distracted and trying to fit myself into this world like a misshapen jigsaw puzzle.

Maybe this is for the best. Spend some time quality R&R time, get healed up and well rested. Let everyone else have a turn at running the show while I focus on the things I can control, namely Carson's situation and the mysterious scientist.

I pick up the phone next to my hip and enter the passcode. Willow wasn't kidding when she said she keeps her phone clean. She doesn't even have phone numbers saved into it. I wonder if this means she's memorized all our numbers or if she's written them down somewhere. Probably the former. It seems like something she'd do.

Recalling that Davey said Sam had sent me emails before his death, I open up a web browser and log into my email account. He left me one message, written with the impersonal brusqueness that defined Sam.

April,

If you are reading this, it means you made it out alive. You kids are humanity's only hope against a dangerous enemy that has been encroaching onto civilization, planting nefarious seeds beneath our feet in preparation for a dark age. I know them only as the Shroud, and I believe that dark age is upon us.

Their biggest weapon is us. Human beings. As their seeds grow, so will their hold over us. It's critical that you find a way to free humankind from their influence, and in turn free yourself. You will soon hear from my associate, who goes by the codename Hermes. He will guide you on your quest. These are dangerous times for all of us, but I trust that you will always do the right thing. You have no other choice.

A cold shiver runs through me. Leaving the facility wasn't a mistake, after all. That night we escaped, Sam acted like he didn't want us to leave, but maybe that was all it had been: an act to fool Jonathan Blaine and his associates. And what's this about planted seeds? Is he talking about us, the Mods and flippers? Or does he mean the Blanks?

I sigh. If I still had my memories, I'd probably know a lot more, but it looks like I'll have to start from scratch. I'm about to log out of my email account when I notice a read email from myself, sent just last week.

My heart leaps. Is it possible I left myself notes? Did I suspect what Willow was going to do? But that hope dies soon as I open it and read just three lines of text.

Dr. George Hansel, Molecular Biologist

323 Milder Road SW, Le Mars, IA, 51031

The last line is a phone number. Okay. I can work with this. It seems I managed to locate the good doctor before Willow gave me a psychic lobotomy. I quickly dial the number—I don't see the point in preparing myself when I've got nothing to work with—but a robotic voice tells me that the phone is disconnected.

Dead end. Unless . . .

A quick map search confirms that Iowa isn't too far from Colorado—although it'll still take ages to travel. I have no idea where Davey is right now, and I can't imagine the gang would be up for another mission right now, which begs the question: how much do they know about Sam's save-the-world directive? And if the answer is nothing . . . why would I hide something like this from them? What the hell is going on?

My eyes grow fuzzy from glaring at the phone screen and my head's starting to hurt again. I lie back and close my eyes, trying to rein in my frustration.

No stress, remember? Just relax, April. Think happy thoughts. Ocean breezes and sea gulls and the warm scent of the midday sun.

I doze off at some point, but I find no rest in sleep. My dreams are a collection of sounds and hazy pictures, like an untuned TV filled with static and skipping images. But some innate part of me recognizes the things I'm seeing and feeling. My anxiety skyrockets. I'm whimpering in my sleep, my fingers digging into the gaps in the lounge chair to keep my body anchored.

Memories. That's what they are, what I've been wishing for, but not like this. Not when they're all crowding my head at once, frightening me with horrible things I can't grasp. And then I see one amongst them, this warm and light memory buried beneath the angry lines, and I latch onto it.

My body relaxes. Somewhere outside the lucid dream, I feel my lips part and my breathing deepen. Then I surrender to everything. His hand running under my skirt, trailing over the bare skin of my thigh. His fingers slipping around the elastic band of my panties. The electricity coursing through my veins as his tongue dives into the hollow of my collarbone. The smooth lines of his back when I shove my hands under his shirt and soak up his virile strength. His teeth nipping at the soft and sensitive spot beneath my jaw and eliciting a soft moan.

Marcus.

I jolt awake at his name. A huge shadow is blocking the sunlight, and I blink awake to see Marcus looming over my lounge chair. He tilts his head slightly and says in a flat tone, "Did I interrupt something?"

My face erupts with heat. I sit up abruptly and pull my coat tighter around me like that'll help with how mortified I feel. "I—I was—"

His eyes are lethal-black. "Dreaming about your boyfriend?"

Thank God. For a moment there, I thought I said his name out loud. But maybe that wouldn't be as bad as the way he's looking at me right now, like he wants to pick me up and toss me into the near-freezing swimming pool.

And maybe this is my chance to figure him out.

"A motel room with a crack in the ceiling," I murmur. "It ran from one corner of the room all the way to the door. You made a joke about how being done in by a ceiling after surviving for so long would be the most ironic thing ever. And then we . . . did we have sex?"

My voice trembles when I ask him that. Of all of the things not to remember, this one shocks me the most. It feels like I gave away a piece of my soul and don't even remember why or how I felt afterward. Not the losing of my virginity, but the sheer intimacy of being that close to another human being, of letting yourself be at your most vulnerable.

He surprises me when he sits on the lounge chair next to me. He places his hands on his knees and leans forward. "I remember the dreams. At least you have the advantage of knowing you're not going crazy."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Would it bother you if I said yes?" He gives me his trademark smirk. "We were together for four months. It was bound to happen."

"Shouldn't I remember something like that?" I blurt out. "I mean, it's . . ."

"Willow said she couldn't let you keep some memories and block others. Something about a tapestry with strings that'll come undone or some shit." A sneer enters his voice. "If it makes you feel better, I made sure you enjoyed it."

I'm still struggling to process this when he gets up abruptly. "We're heading out soon to look for the flipper. It's better if you don't come along. And don't hurt your head trying to think of what I just told you. It's all in the past. Thanks to you, I've got Saige now."