The café is packed. I reach for the door, but just before I pull it open, something stops me dead in my tracks: Héctor’s sitting at a small table, but I notice him only in my periphery. My eyes are glued to who’s sitting in the chair opposite him—the Mogadorian from last night. He’s now clean shaven, and his black hair has been lightened to a chestnut color, but there’s no mistaking him. He’s just as tall and muscular as before, just as broad shouldered, just as dark and brooding, with the same heavy brows. I don’t need the killer’s description to know he matches it perfectly, with or without the dyed hair or missing mustache.

I let go of the door and step backwards. Oh Héctor, I think. How could you?

My legs shake; my heart pounds. As I’m standing there watching them, the Mogadorian turns and sees me at the window. My flesh turns cold. The world seems to stop; I’m stuck, rooted in place, incapable of moving a muscle. The Mogadorian watches me, causing Héctor to turn my way as well, and it’s only upon seeing his face that I’m shocked into action.

I stumble backwards then, turn and run, but before I’ve made it far, I hear the café door open. I don’t turn around. If the Mogadorian is following me, I don’t want to know.

“Marina!” Héctor yells. “Marina!”

Four officers ride with me. I touch my fingertips to the heavy chains. I’m certain I could break them if I wanted to, or I could simply unlock the cuffs with telekinesis; but the thought of Sarah empties me of the energy required for such an undertaking. She couldn’t have turned me in. Please don’t let it have been her.

The first drive takes twenty minutes, and I have no idea where we are. I’m pulled out and shoved into a second vehicle which I assume is more secure, meant for longer transport. The second drive takes forever—two hours, maybe three—and by the time we finally stop and I’m again jerked out, the sickness over what Sarah may have done has grown to the point that it’s nearly unbearable.

I’m guided into a building. After each turn I have to wait for a door to be unlocked. I count four of them, and the air changes with each new corridor, becoming staler the farther I’m led. Finally I’m pushed into a cell.

“Sit,” one of them orders.

I sit on a bed. The hood is removed but the shackles remain. Four officers exit and slam the door shut. The two larger ones take seats outside my cell, while the other two leave.