“What’s that?” he asked.
“Michelle Benoit,” she said. Sighing, she dismissed the netlink.
“You mean … she’s not here?”
“Try to keep up,” Cinder grumbled, and pushed past him into the hallway. She planted her fists on her h*ps and scanned the other closed door, no doubt another bedroom.
The house was abandoned. Michelle Benoit wasn’t here, and neither was her granddaughter. No one with any answers.
“How do we track a person who doesn’t have an ID chip?” Thorne said.
“We don’t,” she said. “That’s the whole point of removing it.”
“We should talk to the neighbors. They might know something.”
Cinder groaned. “We’re not talking to anyone. We’re still fugitives, in case you’ve forgotten.” She stared at the rotating pictures. Michelle Benoit and a young Scarlet kneeling proudly beside a freshly planted vegetable bed.
“Come on,” she said, dusting her hands as if she was the one who had been digging in the dirt. “Let’s get out of here before the Rampion attracts any attention.” The floorboards clapped hollowly beneath her as she tromped down the stairs and rounded the first landing.
The front door swung open.
Cinder froze.
A pretty girl with honey-blonde curls froze in front of her.
Her eyes widened, first with surprise, then recognition. They fell to Cinder’s cyborg hand and the color drained from her cheeks.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” said Thorne.
The girl glanced up at him. Then her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed onto the tile floor.
Thirty-Three
Cinder cursed and glanced back at Thorne, but he only shrugged. She turned back to the fainted girl. Her head was bent at an awkward angle against an entry table, her feet splayed across the doorway.
“Is it her granddaughter?” Cinder asked, even as her scanner was connecting the measurements of the girl’s face to the database in her brain and coming up with nothing. Scarlet Benoit it would have recognized. “Never mind,” she said, and inched toward the girl’s prone body. She nudged the table out of the way and the girl’s head thumped onto the tiles.
Creeping over her, Cinder peered out the front door. A beat-up hover sat in the courtyard.
“What are you doing?” said Thorne.
“Looking.” Cinder turned around to see Thorne stepping into the foyer, eyeing the girl with mild curiosity. “She seems to be alone.”
A wicked grin spread across his face. “We should take her with us.”
Cinder glared. “Are you crazy?”
“Crazy in love. She’s gorgeous.”
“You’re an idiot. Help me carry her into the living room.”
He made no argument, and a moment later the girl was swooped up in his arms without Cinder’s help.
“Here, on the couch.” Cinder bustled ahead of him and rearranged a few faded pillows.
“I’m good like this.” Thorne shifted his arms so the girl’s head fell against his chest, her blonde curls clinging to the zipper of his leather jacket.
“Thorne. Put her down. Now.”