CLAIRE

"I—" I felt myself moving, and standing, but it all felt hollow. "I have to go— I can't—"

"Hey." Julien placed a hand on my shoulder. "It's okay, it's going to be okay—"

I felt my hair toss around me as I shook my head. "It's not, you're lying, it never will be again—"

His hand on my shoulder was too much, too much pressure— I tore away, feeling bigger than my body, like a hurricane was inside and was spiraling out of control, faster and faster.

My vision blurred, I couldn't really hear anyone— but I had to get to Tristan, to the attic, to the one place where I was ever safe in all of this. . .

I didn't even feel a damn thing when I stubbed my foot climbing up the ladder and nearly fell. Nothing felt real, not the adrenaline, not the near free-fall.

I numbly pulled up the ladder and shut the door behind me. I started sinking down the door, the edges of my vision starting to blur again.

"Claire? What's wrong?"

Tristan's voice seemed a million miles away as he dashed out of the computer chair and knelt by my side. I knew factually that Mira and Henry were there, but they blurred in the background—only Tristan was even close to real.

I looked at him, and all I could say was what was on my mind: "You were right about Atomic Energy. All along. They. . . They're the real bad guys in all of this."

Tristan frowned. "What's going on?"

"They're framing the supers and killing them all off through the Sentinels to clean up their mistake after the accident." Despite the horror I felt, my voice was monotonous, cold and calm, yet pleasant. Like a marble statue. "They stole the Sentinels from their parents, they—"

I was starting to cry, but the tears felt foreign on my skin— none of this felt real.

Tristan blinked— he looked like a computer that someone had pressed the reset button on.

"Oh my God," he muttered. "That means they've been trying to kill me, and the kids who had superpowers who were registered, who disappeared—"

I nodded, clapping a hand over my mouth to avoid saying the words that would make all of this real.

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They killed them.

Tristan ran a hand through his hair, a thousand-yard stare on his face. "This— this changes everything— and how did you find out?"

"The TV. Tenebrous hacked the TV stations— and everyone knows the truth now."

"Holy shit." It didn't come from Tristan—it was Mira.

"Yeah." That pretty much summed up how I was feeling— as much as words could, right now.

Henry started to speak. "I wonder what his endgame is, then? We still have to stop him— he's hurt people, and I somehow doubt this is his only goal."

I struggled to focus on anything. "I don't know. . . None of this seems real."

There was an uneasy recognition in Tristan's eyes. "You're having a dissociative episode again, aren't you?"

I blinked. Of course he knew. I'd told him about them, before—when we were closer as kids.

He somehow always knew me.

"Yeah, I'll come out of it eventually." I always did. "We don't have time to worry about me—I don't even know where to begin with these problems."

Everyone was silent for a moment, contemplating what all of this meant. Luckily, that was when I heard a knock on my door.

Claire?"

It was Dad.

"Hide," I hissed at Tristan. He scrambled out of the way, flattening himself against where the wall and the built-in bookshelves intersected. Mira dived under the bed while Henry vanished in plain sight, one of his many powers, I was sure.

I got up, and I opened the door only a little bit.

"I think we need to talk," Dad said softly, solemnly. "You're not okay, are you?"

"No," I admitted. "I'm not— but I want to eat something first."

Dad smiled sadly. "That's probably for the best— maybe this would be a better conversation to have in the morning?"

"I guess."

Then it dawned on me— was Dad going to talk about him being a superhero? And Mom?

"Yeah, morning would be better, I think I'm tired," I said, reaching for my forehead.

It wasn't quite a lie, after all. Everything was starting to take its toll as the numbness all wore away. There was a heaviness in my eyes, a pounding in my head.

Still, I followed Dad downstairs, taking care to shut the doors. I'd figure out how to smuggle food somehow— maybe a midnight snack—

However, before I could even get to the kitchen, there was a ringing of the doorbell.

Dad frowned, opening it— no one was supposed to be leaving their house.

But all the same, standing on the front porch was none other than Tristan's mom.

She was just wearing a sleek and glamorous winter sweater and leggings, no winter coat or heavy clothing, and no car in the driveway or any indication that she had arrived here— not even footsteps in the snow on the sidewalk.

Still, her dark eyes betrayed worry for her son, despite her confident posture.

"Jenna," Dad said, softening a little. "What's wrong?"

"My son—he's not home, his car's still at the high school, but no one's seen him," Jenna said. Her eyes locked onto me. "Have you seen him? He's been around here a lot, and you've always been friends. . . "

"I haven't seen him since History class," I lied.

She narrowed her eyes, resembling a snake about to strike. "Cut the shit, Claire. Ophelia's been dead for years—you're the only one who could become Psyche again."

"What are you talking about?" I tried my best to feign innocence.

Jenna gave an angry sigh. "Doesn't matter—I'm not an idiot, Claire. I know he's Renegade. I know my old parter. So let me ask again: do you know where he is?"

Dad's eyes turned on me—and I could only be honest.

"Yes," I said in the smallest voice.

Dad sighed heavily. "You'd better come in, Jenna. I see we're going to have a lot to talk about before the night is over."