Page 47 of All Her Ghosts

“We have a perfectly good driveway,” I snap. “You could have just turned around.”

Bas pauses at the lip of our yard, cranes his head to peer down the street. In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of asphodel chasing our back bumper before he spins the wheel, cutting out onto the street.

“Rather not take the main roads right now,” he says, shoulders balled, leaning forward to better squint through the gaslit dark. “There’s a housing development that feeds into a subdivision down this way. Lots of RVs in there. No one’s gonna notice someone getting one ready for a long weekend.”

“At least turn the headlights on,” I protest. “You’re acting like someone’s chasing us.”

Bas flashes me a tight smile more worry than humor. My chest tightens, cold welling in my gut.

“Issomeone chasing us?”

He wiggles a hand in the air.

“Maybe? Probably not,” he says and tries to smile again, but his eyes snap to a passing car. His fist clamps hard on the wheel. Hestaresat the driver, eyes scanning, collecting every detail before the car flashes its headlights in irritation at us driving dark but otherwise passes without incident.

Carefully, I reach over, loop my fingers in the tense bend of his elbow. “Bas.”

“Okay,” he admits with a reluctant tip of his chin. “Not yet. It depends.”

“Depends onwhat?”

“How many feds are watching our local news. How many of ’em believe a bunch of scared high school students about what they saw.” He glances at me, his mouth pinched down, whole body braced like a fighter before the bell. “And how many of ’em remember the Demeter Project.”

CHAPTER 15

Playlist: Pastel Melodies for Rotting

“Born to Die” by Lana Del Rey

Ah, perfect, here we go,” Bas says before I can figure out how to catch one of the thousand questions wheeling through my head. He pulls the RV over against the curb in the shadowy pocket of a dead streetlamp, throwing open the door. “Get in, old man.”

Something peels away from the lumpen base of the streetlamp. Bas wriggles into the back. His body blocks my line of sight for less than a second, but by the time he drops into the second passenger seat behind mine, the RV’s already moving, this time with his babynapper behind the wheel.

Knees practically knocking against the dash, Cain swings us out into the street, grappling under his seat with a grimace to make room for his long legs. He ratchets the chair back as far as it’ll go, smashing it against the back of the dinette booth. But even fighting for those couple extra inches, Cain still sits forward, a gap between his back and the seat big enough to wedge my whole arm through. Like he’s afraid the old velveteen might give him cooties.

Or, I realize, eyeing the way his charcoal hoodie bulges ever so slightly at his waistband, like he’ll need to reach for his gun.

“Give Sebastian your phone,” he says, gruff.

“Absolutely not.” I unbuckle my seat belt, folding back against the door. Keeping a steady glare on him, eyeing his hands, I stomp back into my boots. “If this is a kidnapping, try harder.”

And this man—thisCriminal Mindsreject committing several simultaneous crimes—has the actual audacity tosighat me. In the unsteady glow of passing gas lamps, I swear he rolls his eyes.

Flat and tired, he says, “Bas.”

I whip around to glare between the seats, find Bas leaning forward, offering me a smile.

“Hey, I promised you three felonies,” he says gently, holding out a hand. “It’s okay. You can trust him.”

I don’t move. “He has a gun.”

“Listen, I tried to get one for us, too, but he wouldn’t let me.”

“You’re dangerous enough without one,” Cain says with the tired cadence of an old argument.

Bas throws up a hand. “See?”

“You both are,” he adds, glancing at me. “I’d shake your hand, but I like my soul where it is.”