"Your life is special."

While climbing the porch stairs I swear I see the living room curtain twitch. It must have been Leah. Three steps into the house, I'm nearly knocked out when she swings herself haywire around the living room archway, into the hall. Both of us skid to an abrupt stop before she can slam into me.

"Oh, hey." She's a little breathless. Must have ran too. "Sorry, didn't see you there—oh my gosh, love your sweater. Turquoise is, like, my favorite color."

I blink at her. "Uh, thanks." For half a second I'm distracted by the glimpse of a red robe zipping across the kitchen into the dinning room. The sound of plates and silverware clinking together rambles down the hall. A cabinet slams shut, again and again. Noah gives a gleeful shriek.

The TV blares: "Your life matters."

"Breakfast is done," Leah chirps, continually glancing past me. She bats her gobs of mascara. "You guys are eating, right?"

"Um." I toss a quick look behind me at Trip, who is taking an unnatural amount of time closing the front door. Leaving me to handle this on my own, I see. "Well, uh, I'm not sure. Do you know where Dax is?"

"Leah?!"

Slam, slam, slam.

"Yeah, he's in Dad's office, doing computer nerd stuff." Leah gestures down the hall. Then suddenly the grin cutting across her cheeks falters. "You guys aren't leaving, are you?"

"My life was saved."

"I mean, seriously, if it had been Mom's china, I would understand, but she's not mad about—"

"O! O! O!"

"Leah, where are you?!" Aubrey's voice hardly makes it over the racket. "I've told you three times to get drinks ready!"

Huffing, Leah throws her head back and shouts, "Alright, Mom, hold on."

"Quit spying on them," this from Malcolm. "He's too old for you."

"Dad!" Leah's face instantly flushes. With one last mortified glance Trip's way, she spins and stomps into the kitchen. "I was not spying. Gosh! Why do you always have to embarrass me?"

"OooOoo!"

"Noah, honey, you cannot play with Mommy's cabinets."

Raising my eyebrows, I turn and look up at Trip. He's slowing to a stop behind me now, irritated eyes turning away from the television—the word Emulation flaring over the screen—to bore down on me. His scowl says it all.

He's in his own personal hell.

"Let me guess," I say. "You're not hungry."

"No."

Noah's angry, high-pitched wail bounds down the hall.

And Trip's eyes flash around like a caged animal. "Fuck this. I'm going back outside."

"Trip, wait—"

"Guys."

Halting, our attention snaps all the way down the hall.

Dax pokes his head around a half-closed door and frantically motions for us to come into the room. Before I can even move a muscle, Trip is slipping around me, stalking down the hall. I skip a few steps to try to catch up, passing the bedlam in the kitchen—O! O, Addy! If you check yourself one more time in that mirror, Leah—and when I see the subtle lift and drop of Trip's shoulder I start moving faster. "Go easy on him, Trip. Damn it, Trip, please."

"Hey, hey, I know you're pissed," Dax starts, realizing just how swift Trip is advancing. He holds up his hands in surrender, backing away, shrinking further into the room the closer Trip gets. "But listen, you guys aren't going to believe what I just—"

Trip grabs a handful of Dax's shirt collar.

And I curse as I stumble into the room behind them, closing the door. Repeating the past? Dax's eyes bulge just as big as they had when Trip barged into his apartment. Maybe bigger. His hands stay in the air, his shoulders scrunch up to his ears. His voice diminishes to just a squeak when Trip throws him against the wall beside the door. "Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so freaking sorry."

"I should beat the shit out of you," Trip hisses, holding him in place.

"Don't do that. Please, don't do that."

"Trip, you said you wouldn't—"

"Stay out of this, Ashford."

"Alright, i-i-it was stupid, I was stupid," Dax stampers. "I just wanted to be here, okay? And I knew—"

"You knew I wouldn't agree to this. You said a friend. You didn't say anything about a whole fucking clan."

"I didn't know you'd be this pissed when you found out. I didn't think it would be this big of a deal. I thought maybe—I thought you'd like it here."

Through clenched teeth, Trip growls, "Like it?"

Dax shrinks. "Okay, okay, dumb, stupid, I know. I'm sorry, I regret it, I swear on my miserable, pathetic life, it won't happen again, I promise."

"You're right. It won't happen again." Trip reaches behind him.

The second I see metal, my heart stops. My body reacts. Automatically, without hesitation, I'm grabbing at Trip, fingers clasping around his arm, wrenching, pushing my side against his, trying to shove him away. But he's too heavy, too strong. Planting his feet, using his body weight—all that muscle—he pushes back against me, raises his arm despite my efforts to stop him.

I gasp. "What are doing? Oh my—"

He sets the barrel of his pistol against Dax's forehead and cocks the hammer.

Time stills. Dax freezes.

All I can do is stare up at Trip's electric eyes. The tendons in his forearm hum under my fingertips. His strength terrifies me. "Trip," I breathe, but he won't look at me. All of his attention, all of his energy is bearing down on Dax. "Trip, please. Put the gun down."

Dax's Adam's apple bobs as he audibly swallows. He's pale. Not breathing. Fleetingly, as if acknowledging it might make it more real, he glances at the gun, then looks again at the demon holding it. "Triple..."

He won't pull the trigger. Please, God, tell me he—

Trip pulls the trigger.

Click.

The small sound makes me flinch.

And Dax releases a sharp blast of air, breathing like he's sprinted a million miles in two seconds. Blinking once, twice—yes, he can still blink. Yes, he's alive. He gapes at Trip in shock.

"It's not loaded," Trip says. "I guess I should have mentioned that."

"Shit..." Dax gulps, closing his eyes. "Oh God, holy shit." His quaking legs give out. He slides to the floor, head in his hands.

Trip is done. Satisfied, he drops his arm, lightly shaking free from my grasp, gaze sliding down to meet mine. And a trace of dark amusement dances in his eyes as he looks me over. He tilts his head. "Trying to fight me?"

I take a step back.

I haven't fully registered what just happened yet—what could have happened, what I just did, grabbing Trip like that. My thoughts and lips are frozen. But my heart hammers in my chest. My lungs expel short, quick breaths. Wordlessly, I stare back at Trip.

That amused glint never lasts long. Just a moment more of studying me, and he snuffs the light out of his gaze. He holds his hands out open at his sides, balancing the pistol harmlessly in his palm. "Relax," he says, serious now. "I told you I wouldn't hurt him."

I didn't believe him.

"You almost made me piss my pants, Triple." Dax's miserable voice, muffled by his hands, pulls our eyes apart. His whole body quivers with a huff. "God, I thought you were about to blow my brains out."

"No." Trip shakes his head, flipping up the back of his shirt and tucking his pistol at the small of his back in his waistband. "You still have work to do. And thanks to your stupid scheme, you're going to be working your ass off. Double shifts." He sweeps an irritated glance towards the door and the racket piercing through the walls. "We're not staying here for long."

"I feel queasy."

"You'll get over it."

"We don't even know what we're doing yet," I blurt, suddenly able to speak. Not really the best thing to say right now, but it's already said. Once again Trip's gaze locks on mine, and more quietly, I add, "You still haven't come up with a plan."

He doesn't necessarily appear grateful that I'm bringing this up. But he doesn't lash out at me, as expected. Instead, he pauses, thinking, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He looks down at Dax. "Work on a program to crack the fingerprint security system, Dax. I might be able to figure out a way to get that password. I don't know yet. I have to think."

"I feel really queasy."

"Stop whining."

The voices and noises and nonsensical baby talk continue beyond the walls. Dax lifts his head to stare ahead, and for a time, the room goes quiet. I assimilate Trip's words.

Go after a password? We already went after a fingerprint, and what do we have to show for it? A battered face, a wounded shoulder, and a fingerprint we can't even use. Government almost had us at the apartments. Now we're going to have to relive the whole thing over again. And who knows. This time around, we might not be lucky enough to escape Government's clutches.

"You knew," Dax says suddenly. He tips his head back to examine Trip. "I don't know how, but you did. We'd just walked into the house, and I saw that look you gave me. How did you know?"

Dax is right. Before we had even gone inside, Trip's eyes were flashing over the house, up at the curtained windows. And he'd thrown a dangerous glare at Dax when we were sitting at the bar. He knew, way before I did about the kids. The World's Greatest Mom coffee cup was just a confirmation.

With both of us watching him in curiosity, Trip's mood shifts. Again. His gaze switches to the windows as if he's considering crossing the room towards them. But he doesn't move. After a moment, he finally mutters, "She looks like a mother."

"Aubrey?" Dax's brow furrows. "You can tell that?"

"Sometimes."

"What about Malcolm? Does he look like a father?"

"A writer."

"Yeah..." Dax breathes a quiet, surprised laugh. "Yeah, he's a journalist. How did you know that?"

Trip gives a tense shrug, obviously not going to answer. And the next shrill screech that vibrates the walls of the room grates on his nerves. His composure slips a few notches. "Fuck, I wish that kid would shut the hell up."

Dax and I exchange an anxious glance.

"Well. If you aren't going to rip my head off..." Dax clears his throat and slowly wobbles to his feet. "There's something I have to show you guys."

Trip sighs, deep and long. He rubs his shadowed eyelids with his thumb and forefinger. "What is it?" By Trip's tone, I can tell he's thinking what I'm thinking. Neither one of us wants to hear it. We're done with surprises for the day—for the week, our whole lives.

"I think you're actually going to like this."

"You also thought," Trip says peevishly, "I would like it here."

"You've gone viral, Triple."

"I've gone what?" Trip drops his hand.

"Come here, I'll show you." Dax pads across the carpeted floor and rounds a large L-shaped couch adorned with bright pillows and a knitted blanket hanging over one of the arms.

Following behind him and Trip, I'm finally able to take in the cozy office. Sizable bookshelves line the back wall, with one small flat-screen TV set in the middle of the collection of books. Family photos scatter another wall. Dax's laptop is already sitting open on a cherry-wood desk by the windows overlooking the backyard.

"They tried to take it down on a bunch of websites, at first," Dax says, flopping down in the leather computer chair with a big huff. He slumps, arms lax, as if walking that short distance took a ton of effort. "Geez, I'm still feeling queasy. I really—"

"Get on with it, Dax." Trip leans in on the desk with one hand.

"Right." Dax sits forward. With a tap on the screen, the laptop lights to life. "They tried to get rid of it, but it spread too fast. They couldn't catch it in time. Now it's all over the news, article after article, trying to explain it away, using the whole terrorist card again. But Government is super pissed." He twists his neck around to meet eyes with Trip, and to my surprise there's a small smile pulling Dax's lips. "Because people aren't listening this time. People are freaking loving it."

He hits a play button on the keyboard.

And a video starts rolling—

A swarm of SUVs and Force agents. Gun shots. Barrels flashing. A black car speeding towards them, front tires hitching right. The back end of the car whipping expertly, tires screaming. Smashing into the SUV, skidding by it. Then the car is bolting towards the sidewalk, towards the camera. Bystanders scream and jump out of the way, including whoever is shrieking "OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!" and jostling the camera.