But none of them compared, probably, to her escape from Alaska. Alone. Which at the time seemed like the only option that would keep Colt and his family safe.

Except it wasn’t like she had a tracking beacon on her, and what if the Petrovs, or whoever, circled back around for another go at the family?

Or, better yet, maybe someone had followed her, although that might be tricky given the fact that Logan had left her with a new passport and a credit card to get her back home to Seattle.

Which she’d used because, hello, she wasn’t some sort of Sydney Bristow action hero. Never wanted to be.

Her heroines were always the glasses-down-the-nose types. Okay, she had a small fantasy that someday she’d be as smart and crafty as Veronica Mars. But really, she wasn’t brave or bold or even particularly tough.

Maybe, however, she’d left her stalkers in the dust—or on the tarmac as it may be—because she’d seen a plane overhead on her drive to Copper Mountain and driven straight to the airfield.

She’d hired a ride south with a pilot named Winter Starr. Caught an early flight out of Alaska and even beat the storm rolling in.

So she felt fairly smart, and was sort of banking on that as she got off the plane at the Seattle airport and caught a taxi to the Laurelhurst neighborhood.

She could almost smell the memories from her alma mater, the University of Washington, as they drove by the sprawling campus. Coffee from the Bean and Bagel, or the underground cavern where she and Zoey spent hours studying or dreaming up crazy research projects at the College Inn Pub, over cheesy bread and chili.

Yeah, they were dreamers, but in a way, she blamed Dr. Bella. The woman had put ideas in their heads.

Told them they could change the world.

Her memory of where her professor Dr. Bella George lived kicked in as soon as she drove past the Laurelhurst Park.

“Here.” She pointed to a small brick house that overlooked the park, with sharp peaks, a rounded door, and lights glimmering out upon a shiny brick walk. Immaculate white roses climbed a trellis by the front stoop.

She could still picture Dr. Bella standing with her shears, clipping the roses, explaining gene splicing to Zoey and her as they weeded the garden.

Sly, that doctor. But it worked to stir in them the what-ifs.

Tae paid the driver and got out. She should have picked up a cell phone at the airport, maybe called ahead.

This was crazy. Zoey wouldn’t hide here. Not if she knew it would put the professor in danger.

Then again, more often than not, even into their residency, Tae had found Zoey holed up in Dr. Bella’s second-story guest room, with the slanted ceilings and old radiator heater, escaping after a two-day, nonstop shift.