Page 73 of Uncontrolled

“Don’t get attached,” he says and the cadence inexplicably raises my hackles. I should keep my mouth shut. Instead, I laugh, adjust my grip on the handle, and pivot to watch his reaction. “We’re still after CJ, right? Nico’s not changing targets on us?”

Quinn grips the steering wheel, rolling his palm over the leather. “You wanted in, you’re in. Nico will explain everything.”

I’m suddenly hyper aware of whatever my face is doing. “Explain what?” I ask in what I hope is a curious tone.

He doesn’t answer and I wonder if it’s nerves rather than mood that have Quinn so snappy. Last-minute changes mean itchy trigger fingers. I’m not a fan of this development.

I could bail, I think. I could take off. Except… “The kid fell through?” I ask.

I told Allie about CJ. She would have warned him. I assumed CJ just wouldn’t show up today, but if he canceled his movie date with Keeley, they’ll be aware they need another resurrectionist. What happened the last time these guys couldn’t get their original target?

Holy shit, I’m an idiot. “Nico wants to sell Allie instead?”

Quinn signals, the car crawling to a stop as he waits for a bus to make the corner. His head twitches in my direction. “All this? Way above my paygrade. I’m just the taxi, okay?”

Leaning against the ancient leather of the seat, I bring a knee to my chest and rest my forehead on it. Adrenaline floods my system. I watch the asphalt stream past outside the window, my mind racing.

Too soon, we’re pulling into the driveway of Nico’s mid-renovation mess of a house. At least, I assumed it was her house when we came here before. For all I know, it is a squat.

I climb out of the car as Quinn throws it into park.

“Leave your luggage. You won’t need it,” he says.

Quinn starts toward the house. My pack’s in the back seat. I’m unsure what I’m walking into, which means if I insist on taking it, it could get in the way. I’m not keen on abandoning everything I own. Not after what I went through to get it this morning.

You won’t need it. Did he mean to sound ominous?

“Ready?” Quinn prompts. He’s halfway up the driveway on his way around the back of the house. Whatever’s going on, he wasn’t kidding about being in a rush.

My feet are rooted to the cracked concrete. I could go, warn Allie with a text, and be done with this whole damn thing. Grab a ride on a train that actually moves for once. Start over. But not if they already caught her. It’s my fault they’ve gotten this far. I gave them the idea to capture another resurrectionist.

I can’t take off if there’s a chance she’s in trouble. “Do you have Allie?” I ask.

He ignores me.

Run. The command hits like an unexpected punch. My skin crawls. Run away, I think.

“Ploy! Let’s move!” Quinn calls as my view of him disappears around the corner of the house. Last meeting here, we entered through the front door. If I lose him, everything will be unfamiliar.

I move.

When I get inside, he’s nowhere, but I recognize the glimpse of entryway I see down the hallway. I fight up the memory of the route I took when I was in here, fill in the blanks, and make my way to the study. The door’s open. It’s empty.

“Up here!” Quinn yells. He’s on the second floor.

I stare at the elaborate wooden railing, ancient paint tucked into the whorls of the design. The carpet is trodden down and stained. Plaster chips off the wall, the wallpaper ripped and hanging in falling sheets.

I can’t shake the unsettled feeling rooted deep inside me. This has all the hallmarks of a nightmare; the slightly out of frame voice calling to me, the abandoned rooms, the scant daylight filtered through dirty, cracked panes. In my own nightmares, I’m in the farmhouse, and it’s not Quinn bellowing from the second floor, but Jamison’s ragged whispers of my name from the cellar.

This is all in your head, I tell myself. I grab the railing and thunder upstairs. Quinn’s at the end of the hall, gesturing me forward.

“You know this is sketchy as hell,” I say, but he’s already gone. “Shit,” I whisper to no one.

I have half a second to decide what to do. I dig my phone from my pocket and flip it open to wake the screen. The thing’s ancient, but because I can’t use apps or the internet on it, it holds a charge far longer than expensive smartphones. I select Allie’s name on my recents, see the text she sent me two days ago, a smiley face when I told her I’d be there soon. I have to tap each of the buttons multiple times to cue up the correct letter as I painstakingly type my message. I don’t have time for apologies. I send her the code and start a warning not to take any resurrection jobs.

No dandelions. Don’t go

“What’re you doing?” someone asks.

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