Luka grabs me by the wrists, sending a shock of pain through them. “He’ll find you within an hour. Think, Audra! The fact that you erased your memory means you knew something extremely valuable to the Historian. That guy—Rolan?—he will not stop. He’ll take you back to the Center. He’ll force his way in. Possibly kill someone—maybe even you. And you’ll both die for nothing, because you have no records there.”

In the near distance, the tread of tires speeds toward us, slows.

I stare at him, about to ask how he knows that, but his eyes have gone to the mirror.

“Get down!”

My head hits the steering wheel as the back window shatters. Luka’s bent low over my neck one second, and the next he’s shoving me headfirst into the passenger seat as tires squeal against pavement beneath us.

“What was that?” I roll hard against the car door as we veer into traffic.

I can’t see a thing, head dangling into the footwell, nor can I get turned around. And all I can think is that I’m going to die after all, neck broken against the glove compartment, an ignominious bullet in my butt.

“Rolan,” he growls over the engine accelerating in my ear.

He swerves into the next lane, and I brace myself against the dash before being thrown back into the passenger door. I’ve just climbed up enough to get my back against the dash when I see Rolan’s Pathfinder through the driver’s side window—too close. I scream on impact. The car careens toward the shoulder and then jerks violently back.

“Stay down!” Luka shouts. The passenger side window splinters. I turn my head toward the console, eyes squeezed shut, fists over my face.

Luka brakes suddenly, jamming me into the floor mat. My feet fly toward the ceiling. He grabs me by the waist of my jeans and hits the gas. We accelerate hard for a weightless instant—and then smash into a vehicle. Rolan’s.

I hear the impact as we speed away, the collision of the Pathfinder with the ditch—and then the embankment.

“Are you all right?” Luka shouts. “Are you hurt?”

He slows to what feels like a crawl, glancing back in the rearview mirror.

“I’m okay,” I say shakily.

I clutch his arm, and he hauls me up, my vision prickling. Shards of glass trickle to the floor.

Behind us, the Pathfinder has shrunk in the distance, a shadow against a pale crop of corn in the moonlight. I imagine a waft of steam rising up toward the sky.

“Do you believe me now?” Luka says, his mouth a grim line.

I refuse to answer, then do one better and black out.

12

Wake up in the backseat, take two: this time there’s a hunter-murderer leaning over me, blocking out the dome light.