takes his enormous cheeseburger in both hands, brings it to his mouth, and eats half of it in one bite.
“Not okay.” I burst out laughing. “Definitely not okay wearing corseted couture. I need a knife and a fork.” The waitress must overhear—she passes me a set on her way to another table.
“So why is this cheeseburger the best?” I say, cutting off a piece, which keeps falling apart. Forgoing the fork, I lean over my plate and use my hands, moaning, “My mother will kill me.”
“Bacon,” Aksel answers. “Good cheeseburgers always have bacon.”
The waitress sets down two milkshakes in the middle of the table, each with whipped cream piled above the rim. Pulling a shake toward me, I put my lips around the straw and suck. None comes out. “It’s too thick,” I mutter.
“No, no, no,” Aksel says. Reaching across the table, he takes a fry from the platter, scoops it into his chocolate shake, then eats it.
I throw my head back, laughing. “Americans are so bizarre.”
“I’m not sure what to make of that comment,” he responds, “coming from the girl who kills grasshoppers with her teeth.”
Holding my hands far away from my dress, I scoop a salty fry into my shake and then shove it into my mouth.
Within ten minutes, my fingers are adequately covered in grease, salt, and cream. “Excuse me,” I giggle, standing to go wash my hands. Aksel politely stands.
The diner is crowded, especially in the narrow aisle separating the rowdy booths from the long counter.
Beyond the booth, near the single bathroom, is a second entrance. As I reach the bathroom door, a man steps inside the diner, a few feet away from me.
He is wearing glasses and a baseball cap. Dark tufts of hair curl up from under his hat. I can’t see his eyes; they are focused on a phone in his hand. But I sense him watching the movement of my dress.
My hex sense hits like a jolt of electricity.
The effect is instant—my hands clench, my limbs stiffen.
My eyes snap to his boots. Same size.
His skin. Same shade.
Same man.
I check my surroundings—an elderly man is standing at the counter to my right: pulling the soda fountain nozzles while joking with the men in tuxedos.
The waitress walks up to the man with the curly hair. “I’ll get you seated. Which do you prefer, booth or counter?”
“Neither,” he answers in a smooth voice. Lifting his head, his eyes meet mine. “I actually won’t be staying.”
A bolt of fear fires down my spine.
My throat tightens. Hazy memories wash over me: voices inside a van … hot sweaty skin on mine … fingers at my throat …
The door to the bathroom clicks open. I spin around and hurl myself inside. I shove the latch, locking it into place. I slump back against the door, panting.
My chest thuds. I shut my eyes. I can still feel it—the taste of dried blood on my cut lips, the scratchy cloth against my eyelids, the burning on my wrists.
I stare ahead into the mirror. My face has lost all color; my pale eyes are wide; my hands are trembling.
I am Sophia again—the Sophia before Waterford.
Inside the tiny stall, my vision blurs. I sit down on the toilet seat lid and press my hands together until the tips of my fingers turn purple.
Memories assault me—my mother’s tears on my forehead … the taste of metal, and sweat, and blood …
No!
I won’t let this happen. My life is different now.
I no longer need to be afraid.
I am with Aksel. In Waterford.
No one is following me.
I turn on the faucet.
It’s a coincidence.
Cold water trickles out in sporadic bursts into the metal sink before turning into a steady stream. I rinse my fingers, scrubbing vigorously beneath my fingernail tips, scouring until my fingers are raw and red.
Bang! Bang! Bang! “Sophia, are you okay?” Aksel’s voice is low. Urgent. He knocks again.
I flip the lock, open the door, and collapse into Aksel’s broad chest.
He wraps both his arms around my waist, drawing me into him so quickly he nearly lifts me off the ground.
I scan the restaurant over his shoulder.
“You’re okay?” he says—not quite a question.
“Fine.” My voice trembles. My whole body trembles.
Aksel takes my cold, damp hands in his. I see in his eyes that fierce desire to protect me.
“You saw him?” I murmur.
“He walked right past me,” Aksel snarls.
Keeping me behind him, Aksel surveys the restaurant. I slide my fingers around Aksel’s upper arm.
My head is spinning. My senses are exploding inside my skull.