Sydney frowned. “Was it worth it?”

A long silence.

And then June said, “Yes.” The sound of a coffee mug shifting on a table. “But hey, like I said, not all family is blood, right? Sometimes we have to find a new one. Sometimes we get lucky, and they find us.”

Sydney looked down into her tea. “I’m really glad we met.”

“Me too.”

Neither spoke for a few minutes, the ambient noise of their respective diners collapsing the distance. June hummed softly, and Syd wished she were really there, sitting across the table.

Sydney closed her eyes. “Hey, June?”

“Yeah, Syd?”

Her voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You could leave.”

She’d thought about it. She was so tired of moving, of living out of a backpack, of chasing down lead after lead, only to find dead ends. Sick of watching Victor suffer, of knowing it was her fault. But that was exactly why she couldn’t go. Victor had killed Serena, yes, but Sydney was killing him. Over and over. She couldn’t abandon him. She wouldn’t abandon Mitch. They were her family. They were all that was left—they’d taken her in, given her hope.

“Syd?”

“I can’t.”

“Well, then,” said June. Sydney heard coins drop on the table, June pushing back her seat. “I suggest you go home.”

XVI

ONE YEAR AGO

EDGEFIELD

IT was too hot for Halloween.

They were in a college town somewhere down south, the air still sticky, the streets crowded with groups of teenagers heading to parties, and Sydney had decided to go out.

She stood at the bedroom mirror, adjusted the dark brown bob, put on the darkest lipstick she could find, traced black lines around both eyes. But the older she tried to look, the more ridiculous she felt. Syd tore the wig off and slumped back onto the bed.

She took up her phone, read the last few texts from June.

June: So go out.

Syd: I can’t.

June: Says who?

June: You’re 17.

June: You can make your own decisions.

June: They can’t stop you.

Syd rolled to her feet, and began again.

She’d gone into a costume shop the day before with Mitch, found a generic anime schoolgirl getup. If looking older wouldn’t work, maybe she could pass for someone trying to look young.

Syd combed her blond hair, pulled on the pleated skirt, and adjusted the bow at her throat. She slipped the gun—these days, she never went

anywhere without it—into a tiny backpack, then marched out into the apartment.

Victor sat at the kitchen table, poring over profiles, Dol asleep at his feet. Mitch was on the couch, watching a college football game. He sat up when he saw her. “You dressed up.”

“Yeah,” she said, starting toward the door. “I’m going out.”

Mitch crossed his arms. “Not alone, you’re not.” He was already pulling the deck of cards from his back pocket. Anger whipped through Sydney at the sight of them.