Page 133 of The Girl Who Only Died Once

UNKNOWN (4:25 PM): I don’t believe you. What’s my favorite ice cream?

Without even needing to look at her screen, Killian recites: “The pistachio from Fentons with a scoop of mint and eight cherries, no whipped cream.”

Chloe stares at him for a beat, before tapping it out and sending.

CHLOE (4:26 PM): Pistachio. Scoop of mint. Too many cherries, no whipped cream, from some place called Fentons.

The text clicks over to read, and Killian doesn’t relax, just sits there, staring at her, his eyes reflecting back the dim light at her.

There’s a three-foot-wide radius of melted snow around the car, the pavement glistening from the sudden water. They’re in a run-down neighborhood, the type with no sidewalks and no trees and a rusted down swing set in the end of the cul-de-sac. A few of the houses had yards full of decrepit cars, covered in snow like ghastly skeletons of metal.

The door to the house in front of them swings open, and the girl stomps out, in brand new snow boots, and all at once, Killian relaxes.

She eyes them with a scowl, then points down the street, towards a cross section, as if asking a question.

Killian nods, a simple inclining of his head, and she rolls her eyes, before stomping obediently towards the cross way, not looking back. She has a backpack slung over her shoulder, and if Chloe wouldn’t know better, she would have thought that she is a normal middle schooler, the sort with homework and boy troubles and a stable home.

Killian watches them, his head swiveling to follow her until she disappears around the corner, unmoving besides that.

“Is this your car?” Chloe murmurs when he remains motionless, even after they can’t see her anymore.

“Of course,” Killian answers, remote, his eyes unfocused. “I have surveillance planted around all her friends’ houses.”

They sit, Chloe’s skin prickling with Killian’s power, until a few minutes later he slumps back, closing his eyes.

“She’s within her mother’s doorway,” he mutters, rubbing his face. “She’s safe now.”

“I take it you didn’t want to just take her yourself because…” Chloe prompts him.

“Because if they’re tracking me, I shouldn’t be giving them a map to her,” he finishes, then gently takes Chloe’s hand in his once more.

She braces herself for another teleport, but he simply swipes his thumb across her palm, like he’s considering things, until Chloe’s phone beeps.

UNKNOWN (4:34 PM): Not cool. Tell him I’m at my mom’s.

Chloe just turns her phone to him and lets him read it. His hand briefly tightens on hers, and he slowly lifts his gaze to hers.

He’s stricken. Fear coats every single line in his face, every single micro motion in his skin, every muscle across his shoulders. He’s terrified, like he cannot even move his mouth to speak from the fear, like it has stolen his words and he cannot find them again.

“Oh, hey,” Chloe says, and his hand stills against hers. “She’s safe, you succeeded.”

Mute, he nods.

“And now we…” she trails off, not quite sure. “Go back, get the research, find someplace they don’t know about to stay?”

“Track down their magical trace, destroy them?” he suggests darkly.

“Or that, yeah, sure, that could work,” Chloe says, then tightens her hand on his in what she hopes is soothing. “Research first.”

He doesn’t smile back, but before she can register it, they’re back in the small house with the frugal curtains and the creaky bed.

This time, going from sitting to standing, Chloe staggers into him. He catches her with one arm as if she weighs nothing, setting her upright again, but his gaze is already trained outside the little window.

Chloe pulls out of his grasp almost without him noticing, then grapples for the backpack, slinging her shoulders in it. Her ribs pang her, sudden, and he twitches but doesn’t look towards her.

“Is there anything else you need from here?” she asks, as he does nothing but stand at the window, chin dipped down and eyes angry. “Anything before we leave?”

He cocks his head, still not quite looking at her. “Do you still have that gun?”

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