began tugging. “Come on.”

I allowed myself to be dragged along, eyes darting around the room for a hiding place, although I knew hiding would be futile. “Where are we going?”

“You are leaving,” Tristen whispered, dropping the knife and raising a window.

“Not without you,” I objected, wriggling as he wrapped one arm around my waist, lifting me.

“Jill, stop fighting and go!”

I twisted against him. “Not without you!”

Across the room the door rattled on its hinges, and that terrible voice roared out Tristen’s name, summoning him. “Open this door now, son!”

“Jill.” Tristen spun me around to face himself. “This is inevitable for me. Allow it to happen.”

“Not tonight.” I shook my head. “I won’t go without you.”

We stayed deadlocked for just one more second, and then, just as the door shuddered again, struck from outside by a beast whose rage was palpable, Tristen agreed. He didn’t say anything, but somehow we both understood that we would go together.

“Run, Jill,” he said, pushing me out the window. I watched from outside as he snatched up the old notes, crammed them in the box, grabbed the knife, and followed, dropping to the ground and clasping my hand in his. “Just run.”

Tristen was one of the best runners in the state, and it seemed like I borrowed some of his power as we tore away from the school and into the darkness. I felt like we were both flying, like nothing could catch us, not even a monster as strong as the one I feared was on our heels.

But thinking back, I’m sure that Tristen slowed his pace to match mine.

That seemed like something Tristen Hyde would do, even if it put his own life at risk.

Chapter 72

Jill

“ARE YOU GOING TO BE OKAY?” Tristen asked, standing in the shadows behind my house.

“Yes,” I said. “Mom’s home tonight. I’ll be safe.”

“I’ll stay until you get inside. Then lock the door behind you.”

I started to step up onto the back porch. “Tristen . . . you’re not going back, are you?”

“No, Jill,” he promised. “He wouldn’t be there, anyway.”

“You could come inside.”

Tristen shook his head and shifted the box under his arm. “No. I’ll hide this and go home.”

“Home? But—”

“It’s too cold to sleep outside.” Tristen attempted a joke. “And I think, now, that he doesn’t plan to confront me in our house, anyhow.”

“Why,” I wondered aloud, “do you think he came to the school?”

“I’m sure he’s watching me, knows what we’re doing, and hoped to find me with the formula,” he said. “For, more than killing me, he wants me to drink and continue our legacy.”

A spark of hope flickered inside of me. “What if you did it?” I ventured. “You could always drink it and buy time, with the intention of changing back . . .”

But he was already shaking his head. “No. It’s too risky. Who knows what I might do under its influence?” He paused, and I could hear the reluctance in his voice as he added, “You know that my father likely killed yours, over the formula?”

I stood in silence, letting Tristen’s words sink in. And yet I knew that I wasn’t as shocked as I should have been by the suggestion.

Had a part of me guessed that Dr. Hyde was involved in Dad’s death? Had I pushed the clues and coincidences out of my mind as Mom had healed under his care—and as I’d come to love Tristen? Because to love the son of my father’s killer would be so wrong . . .

“I’m sorry,” Tristen said, hanging his head, like he really did share responsibility for Dr. Hyde’s crime.

“I wonder,” I mused with a bit of my old foolish hope for Dad’s redemption, “if maybe my dad was trying to help yours.”

“Yes, I believe so,” he said, looking at me again. “I found an unfinished document on my father’s computer in which he discussed working with an anonymous collaborator on a cure for the madness that he knew was overtaking him.”

My heart started to race. “My dad?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Our fathers were also excited about broader possibilities for the formula if they perfected it. They saw implications for opening whole new avenues of study in personality manipulation and social control.”

“You never told me that,” I said, stunned. “Why not?”

His brown eyes clouded with remorse. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. How could you look at me again, knowing what my father likely did to yours?” He gave a rueful laugh. “Not that my own sins weren’t enough to drive you away.”

A part of me still hadn’t accepted, or absolved, Tristen for killing. A part of me also knew that it was terrible to love the son of my dad’s murderer. But I loved him anyhow. “Forget that,” I urged. “You aren’t a monster—and we aren’t our parents. I don’t blame you for your father’s actions.”

“I think your dad really believed that he would restore your college fund and then some,” he added. “They had very high hopes for professional—and by extension, financial—gain.”

A huge lump grew in my throat. Tristen had largely just vindicated my father, like I’d hoped for. And yet Dad was still gone, Tristen’s father was maybe worse than dead, and Tristen and I . . . the future didn’t look good for us, either.

“Go inside, Jill,” he finally said. “I’ll be fine tonight.”

Tonight. But not for long.

I hesitated, one foot still on the step. “Tristen?”

“Yes?” He stepped closer and raised his hand, brushing my stray lock of hair behind my ear. “What is it?”

I caught his hand in mine and laced our fingers, squeezing our palms together. Although it was very dark, I saw what I wanted to see in his eyes. “Come over tomorrow night,” I offered. “You need something decent to eat, and you could rest.” I felt myself blush as I added, “Mom will be at the hospital almost all night . . .”

He hesitated. “I don’t know, Jill. It might not be safe for you.”

No. It wouldn’t be safe. Being with Tristen would be the riskiest thing I’d ever

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