Breathless, I stare through the grid to see Paul and Theo on the ground. Theo has the advantage at first, on his knees while Paul is flat on his back, and his fist makes contact with Paul’s jaw so hard that I can hear the crack.
Then Theo tries to hit him again, and in the moment that he blocks Theo’s hand with his own, Paul’s expression shifts from bewildered hurt to rage.
Red security alert lights begin to pulse. The grids cast strange shadows that seem to carve lines around and through us. Soon the metro police will be here. Shit.
Yet none of that matters when I see Paul bodily throw Theo back. Theo tumbles over so far that he actually falls through one of the holographic signs, something about tourism in Italy. As Theo half vanishes behind a translucent version of the Colosseum, Paul leaps after him, kneeling above Theo’s crumpled form.
“You,” he snarls, clutching Theo’s T-shirt. I never knew Paul’s face could look like that—soulless with fury. “How did you follow me?”
Theo kicks Paul solidly in the chest, but it only holds him back a moment. Paul recovers within a blink and punches Theo in the jaw. Then again. Then again. It’s not like I didn’t know Paul was bigger than Theo, but somehow I never realized until now just what a giant he is. How impossible it would be for Theo to take him down alone.
But I’ve got my breath back. Theo doesn’t have to go it alone anymore.
I run toward them, jump through the holographic sign and land on Paul’s broad back. He grunts in surprise, and tries to reach for me, but I’ve got one hand around his neck and another in his hair. So what if hair pulling is a girl move? It hurts, and it works.
“What—” Paul tries to twist out of my grip, but as his hand closes around my forearm, he suddenly stills. “Marguerite, stop.”
I can hardly hear the words over the rumbling approach of another train.
“Go to hell,” I say.
My free hand is the one with the Defender bracelet. When I slam it against his side, it does its job, shocking him again, and he cries out in pain.
Theo’s back up, and he goes after Paul’s Firebird locket. That’s it, that’s it, all I have to do is hold Paul while Theo finishes him.
Then Paul angles his head back, and he looks at me. His gray eyes stare upward, searching my face, revealing a depth of betrayal and pain I recognize because it mirrors my own.
For one instant, doubt blots out everything else, and my grip weakens.
One instant is all Paul needs.
He twists free of me and slams his elbow into Theo’s face, knocking him back to the floor. I try to regain my hold on Paul, but it’s useless; he’s up now and using every inch he has on me, every pound, to hold me back.
“What are you doing?” he shouts. The security lights pulse above us, turning the line of blood along his mouth from red to black and back again.
“Stopping you!” I swing at Paul, but his massive hand blocks mine easily.
Theo scrambles to his feet; Paul sees it. Immediately he grabs me—literally picks me up—and shoves his way through the doors of the train car right before they close. I wriggle free of him just in time to see Theo press his hands against the glass door. But it’s too late. The train is moving.
For one moment I match my hand to Theo’s, separated only by the glass; he looks stricken, but says nothing. What can he say? Nothing can prevent the way the train speeds up, pulling away from him, leaving only his fingerprints.
The train slides into the tunnel, into the darkness. Nobody else is in this car. Paul and I stand there, breathing hard, illuminated only by the holographic ads overhead. He’s still wearing his Firebird. We are alone.
“How did Theo bring you here?” Paul says, voice low. “And why?”
I lift my chin. “Theo rebuilt the Firebird prototypes on his own. You didn’t think he could, did you?”
“The prototypes. Of course,” he whispers, and it’s almost like he’s glad to hear it. “But . . . but why did he bring you along? Do you not see how dangerous this is?”
“That doesn’t matter. If you thought you could kill my father and get away with it, you’re—”
“What?” His face pales so suddenly that I think for a moment he might pass out. “What—you said—Henry’s dead? He’s dead?”
The astonishment and pain I see are very real. Some people are good enough actors to feign shock, but shy, uncertain Paul Markov has never had that kind of game. There’s no way he could fake this kind of horror, or the tears I can see welling in his eyes.
It hits me then, a blow more stupefying than sharp: Paul didn’t kill my father.
“Oh, God.” Paul wipes hastily at his eyes; he’s trying so hard to stay focused. “How can Henry be dead?”
All those moments that have tormented me over the past few days—Paul smiling at his birthday cake, listening to Rachmaninoff, standing in the doorway of my bedroom. Those were real. Paul is real.
But then what the hell is going on? If Paul didn’t kill Dad, who did?
“Wait. You thought I killed him?” Paul says it with none of the anger I’d feel in his place. He’s just completely confused, like he has no idea how I could ever believe anything so weird. “Marguerite, what happened?”
“His car went into the river. Someone had tampered with Dad’s brakes.” My voice sounds small, not like my own.
“You have to believe me. I didn’t hurt Henry. I would never do that.”
“It really looked like it had to be you.” And as soon as I realize that, I realize something even worse. “I think someone framed you.”
Paul swears under his breath. “Why on earth did Theo bring you along?”
“Why do you keep acting like it’s all up to Theo? I chose to come. I have to find out who did this to Dad.”
Then it hits me—this wave of anger. I thought I knew who to blame for Dad’s death, before; I thought I knew who to hate. Now I don’t. For the past few days, my hate has been the only thing keeping me going. I feel naked, unarmed.
The train curves through the tunnel, and the floor beneath us rocks back and forth. All the ads flicker slightly. Paul’s face is half in shadow like the album cover of Rubber Soul.
“I’ll find out who hurt Henry.” Paul takes one step toward me. “I swear that to you.”
“If it’s not all up to Theo, then it’s not all up to you either! Okay, so, you didn’t kill Dad or trash the data. Then who did? Why did you run?”