Adrian’s lips tilted upward again, but she could tell he was humoring her. “I know. You’re probably right. She’s probably dead. I just … wonder about it, sometimes.”

“Well, don’t.”

He chuckled, but quickly became serious again. Sliding the cardboard box beneath the table, he stood. “You know, we never talked about what happened that day.”

Nova’s pulse jumped, and just like that, she was back in the neglected corner of Cosmopolis Park, and Adrian was telling her how worried he’d been when he thought she was dead, and he was stepping closer, and her breaths were coming quicker—

“Do you want to talk about it?” His eyes were on her, unsure.

Heat climbed her neck and blossomed across her cheeks. Did she want to talk about it?

No, not really.

She wanted to pretend like it hadn’t happened. She wanted to start over.

She wanted him to try to kiss her again, because this time, she wouldn’t run away.

“I … I’m sorry,” she said, wetting her lips. “I think I just … I just got scared.”

It was true. It was still true. She was scared. Scared that she felt this way for Adrian Everhart, a Renegade. Scared that she couldn’t quite escape it, no matter how many times she reminded herself that he was the enemy.

Scared that even now, she knew that she wasn’t trying to get close to him only because Ace had suggested it. If anything, that was just a convenient excuse to do exactly what she’d wanted to do all along.

“Of course you were scared,” he said. “I was terrified.”

“You were?”

“But you were braver than I was. I completely froze up, and you…” He trailed off.

Nova stared at him, perplexed. She was brave? He froze up?

“But still, even if the Detonator was a monster, I know it couldn’t have been easy. You killed someone, and—” He lifted both hands like he was trying to calm her, but Nova wasn’t upset. She was baffled. “You did what you had to do, but it couldn’t have been easy, and … I just … if you want to talk about it, you can talk to me.”

“About … killing the Detonator,” she said, as her thoughts reshuffled and fell back into place.

Here she was, dwelling on an almost-kiss, and Adrian wanted to talk about the time she’d killed someone.

“I’m sorry,” Adrian said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I just thought—”

“No, it’s fine. I mean … I was offered trauma counseling, if I wanted it, but I don’t really feel like I need it.” And she wasn’t about to spill her innermost thoughts to a Renegade psychiatrist, even if she did need it. “The thing is, killing the Detonator wasn’t hard.” She exhaled, and wanted to move closer to Adrian, but there was so much stuff between them. So much baggage. Her entire past life laid out at their feet, and she couldn’t bring herself to wade through it. “It wasn’t hard at all. She was hurting all those people, and she would have hurt so many more.” Her palms were becoming damp, but she forced herself to hold Adrian’s gaze and tell him the truth, what she had known even then was the truth. “She would have hurt you.”

Surprise warmed his features. “Nova…”

She turned away, her heart fluttering with the way he was looking at her.

Then—“Nova.”

She glanced up again, and Adrian was suddenly grinning. He pointed to something behind her.

Nova peered up. Her shoulders fell.

Winston’s puppet, Hettie, was perched on the topmost shelf over Nova’s old desk, its wooden legs dangling over the side, its sad eyes watching them as though it had been listening in on the whole conversation and found it severely disheartening.

She bit back a groan. “Brilliant.”

* * *

AFTER ADRIAN RETRIEVED the doll, they made their way back through the warehouse and found Snapshot talking to Callum in the section devoted to artifacts with healing properties.

“It should clearly go in defense,” Callum was saying, holding up a thick black pendant attached to a slender chain.

“I disagree,” said Snapshot, punching something into a handheld label maker. “It belongs here, with the other healing objects.”

“It doesn’t heal,” Callum said.

“It protects from disease,” said Snapshot.

“Yeah, it protects you from getting sick, but it won’t do anything if you’re already sick. It’s preventative. It’s a defensive measure. Defense.”

“Excuse me?” said Adrian, drawing their attention.

Callum opened his arms wide. “Nova, tell her! Vitality Charm, healing or defense?” He held up the necklace. The large round pendant swung from the chain. It appeared old—ancient even—with a rudimentary symbol impressed into what might have been iron, showing an open palm with a serpent curled up inside it.

Nova shook her head. “Sorry, Callum. Never heard of it.”

His shoulders sank. “Okay, well … mostly it’s used to protect against poison and disease, but there was also one account of it fending off a strength-draining attack from a prodigy.”

“Cool,” said Adrian. “Can I see?”

Callum handed the pendant to him. “They’ve had it in healing for years, but that doesn’t make sense.”

“Fine, Callum, fine,” said Snapshot, pressing a label onto the edge of a shelf. “Shelve it wherever you want. Hello, Adrian—I heard you were going through the Anarchist room. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“As a matter of fact…” Adrian held up the puppet. “Can I get it cleared to be taken out?”

She set down the label maker and took the puppet from him. She brought her cat-eye glasses down from her head and inspected the doll from every angle. After a long, quiet moment, she handed Hettie back to Adrian. “Just a puppet,” she confirmed. “Nothing extraordinary about it. You have my permission to take it from the warehouse. Callum, maybe you can make a note in the database?”

“Great, thanks,” said Adrian. He went to return the medallion to Callum, but hesitated. He looked closer at the design, his brow creasing.

Nova inched closer, trying to see what had caught his interest, but it was just a big, ugly pendant so far as she could tell. Albeit one that could protect from disease. She wondered to what extent. The common cold? The plague? Everything in between? And why wasn’t it at the hospital, rather than gathering dust in here?

“Actually, is this available to be checked out too?” asked Adrian.

“Sure,” said Callum. “But once you bring it back”—he cut a sharp look at Snapshot—“I’m putting it in defense.”

She shooed them away. “Just make sure you fill out the form, Mr. Everhart,” she said. “Nova can help you with that.”

Nova smiled tightly. “Right this way.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WINSTON PRATT HELD the puppet in both hands, peering into its sad face with apparent indifference. Adrian had not known what to expect when he brought the doll to him. The counselor had insisted on being there, pointing out that objects that were significant and sentimental to a patient could result in strong outbursts of emotion—positive and negative. So Adrian had been prepared for delighted squeals, or wretched sobs. But had not been prepared for total apathy.

Even confusion, as Winston tilted his head from side to side. He seemed to be inspecting the doll’s face, but for what, Adrian couldn’t begin to guess.

“Well?” Adrian said finally, his patience reaching its end. The counselor shot him a disgruntled look, which he ignored. “That is Hettie, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Winston Pratt. “This is Hettie.” He rubbed the pad of his thumb across the black teardrop on the puppet’s cheek, as if trying to scrub the paint away. It didn’t work. Holding the doll in both hands, he lifted it to eye level and whispered, “You did this to me.”

Adrian cast a glance at the counselor. She looked worried, like she was ready to step in and divert Winston’s attention to more cheerful subjects at the first sign of trouble. Clearing her throat, she took a subtle step forward. “What did Hettie do to you, Mr. Pratt?”

Winston looked up, startled, as if he’d forgotten they were there. Then his lip curled in annoyance. “Hettie is a puppet,” he said, shaking the doll so that the wooden head bobbed back and forth. “It can’t do anything it isn’t made to do.”

The counselor blinked. “Yes,” she said slowly, “but you said—”

“It’s what he symbolizes,” Winston said. His indifference vanished, and suddenly, his face was carved with emotion. His brow creased, his eyes burned. His breaths turned ragged. “It’s what he did!” With a scream, he pulled back his arm and threw the puppet. It clacked hollowly against the wall and fell to the floor, its limbs splayed at odd angles.

Adrian watched, frozen, and wondered distantly if he should come back in an hour or two.

But then Winston took in a long breath and giggled, almost sheepish. “I didn’t mean to do that.” He looked at Adrian. “Could you hand him back to me, pretty please?”

When the counselor didn’t object, Adrian scooped the doll from the floor. Winston snatched it from his hand and spent another moment trying to scratch off the teardrop with his thumbnail, before huffing with irritation and tucking Hettie against his side.

He met Adrian’s eyes again and shrugged, a little sadly. “I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on poor Hettie,” he said, petting the doll’s fluffy orange hair. “It really isn’t his fault.”

Adrian forced a smile, not sure how else to respond. He waited a full ten seconds before lifting his eyebrows. “So?”

“So?” said Winston.

His fist started to tighten and Adrian shoved it into his pocket in an attempt to make it less obvious. “We had a deal. The puppet, in exchange for information. You promised to tell me who killed my mother.”