Blood stains my shirt, my jeans, my skin, but the Firebird remains spotless. The cause of all this turmoil glints in the noonday light, bright as ever.

Theo said Conley had already signaled to Wicked. How? They can’t communicate the way we do, or else they’d already know . . . wait. Of course. Romola. He called her, she swapped universes long enough to make a phone call, and it’s done. Maybe he has other henchmen, other imperfect travelers willing to leap between worlds and screw stuff up for the rest of us, but I bet Romola’s the only one in on the whole scheme.

The point is, Wicked’s gone. I have a chance now to leap to this so-called “neutral universe,” since this Firebird picked up her trail as soon as I got here. Then the race begins again.

At the moment, a neutral universe sounds like an almost unbelievable luxury.

I take a pen and my dog-eared boarding pass for the San Francisco–Quito flight and jot down a few notes. While I know my other selves remember my time in their bodies, this might be too much of a shock for my Triadverse self to handle in the first several minutes. I put down the hotel name and room number and underline the words Paul will be here soon. Part of me wants to linger until he arrives, to take momentary comfort in his arms . . . but he should be with his own Marguerite when he sees this. They need each other.

No need to mention that Conley’s dead, that Theo gave his life to protect us, or that she shouldn’t walk back to the car and look inside. What I saw there—what Theo did—neither she nor I will ever be able to forget that as long as we live.

I tuck the boarding pass in the front pocket of my T-shirt, take a deep breath, and leap away.

After seeing two people die in a violent car accident, it’s jarring to jump into myself behind the wheel of a car.

But this car isn’t on the road.

It’s in the water.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God! Frantically I paw at the door, look out at the river or bay or whatever is now lapping over the hood, and feel the first trickles dampening my feet. Panic rushes in along with the water. I look up for the sunroof—our new car at home has one—but not here. Water closes over the hood completely, and the car tilts as it begins to sink.

My fingers clasp the handle before I remember, Don’t open it.

Back in late November, when we believed my father had been murdered, we thought he’d drowned when his sabotaged car crashed into the water. Dad turned out to have been kidnapped into a parallel dimension instead, but none of the rest of us discovered that for nearly a month.

And the thing is, when you mourn someone’s death for that long, you don’t get over it instantly, even if you get them back.

I had nightmares about Dad’s crash for more than six weeks after he was back home safe and sound. Paul insisted that knowledge was the answer, that if I understood what to do in that situation, eventually I’d save myself in the dream and the nightmares would end. It didn’t exactly work that way—the bad dreams trailed off on their own. But those dozens of videos of safety experts or TV reporters I watched, all of them explaining how to escape from a sinking car, told me the water pressure makes the door hard to open. You’re supposed to try to get out through the window instead.

My finger finds the window controls, and the glass slides halfway down, then stops. At the exact same instant, the entire dashboard goes dark. Water has shorted out the car’s electrical system.

The opening at the top of the window might be wide enough for me to squeeze through.

Might.

I slip my head through, angle my shoulders, and start pulling myself out. But the glass snags on my belt, and even as I wriggle desperately, the car keeps sinking. With one hand I fumble at the belt, manage to undo it, and then brace both my palms against the car door and push myself out as hard as I can. The force pulls my jeans down to my thighs, but now I can get my hips through the window. Almost free.

The car tilts and I splash into the water, my lower legs still trapped between the window and the door. I struggle, but my feet catch in the opening. For one sickening moment I think the car’s going to tow me down like an anchor, all the way to the bottom. In the last instant before I go under, I suck in a deep breath.

I go under. Everything turns so cold. My hair swirls around me in a dark cloud. Sunlight turns the muddy water amber. The car still drags at my legs, its weight sure to drag me to my death if I can’t shake it. Desperately I kick and kick and—yes!—my feet slide free. My jeans and shoes went with the car, and now I’m able to swim upward.

When my head breaks the surface, I gasp for air. A small crowd has gathered on the road, near the smashed rail that must show where my car plunged in. No strong current drags me down, and thank God, because I’m not sure I could fight it. The lack of oxygen, combined with extreme physical exertion, dizzies me—but adrenaline has begun to kick in. I have the strength to keep going. Struggling, I head for shore.

Thank you, Dad, I think as I feel the first riverbank slime beneath my bare feet. Thank you, Paul. All those nightmares and videos just saved my life.

For a while, I just lie on the riverbank, too exhausted to even cover myself. If the world wants to look at my butt through my wet underwear, it can go right ahead. At the moment I couldn’t care less.

I can handle a lot. I know this about myself by now. But those two moments, back to back, have left me so ragged and tired that I am beyond action. Beyond caring. Some kind woman who keeps a first-aid kit in her car covers me with one of those silvery safety blankets. So I allow myself a few moments to simply exist. To say nothing to myself beyond the thought, I’m warm.

By the time the police arrive, though, I’m able to talk again.

“Witnesses said it looked like you drove off the side on purpose,” says the cop, who squats in front of me with a notepad in his hands. “But then you fought like hell to get out of there.”

“I didn’t mean to drive into the water.” A droplet makes its way down one of my curls before falling on my cheek. “I—I think I fell asleep at the wheel.”

“Fell asleep? If I run a field sobriety test on you, what’s it going to show me?”

I wouldn’t put it past Wicked to do a couple of shots before driving into a river, but I feel totally, almost brutally sober. “I’m clean. I swear. But I’ve been putting in a lot of all-nighters, and—”

“You’re lucky you didn’t hurt somebody else.” The cop seems to believe me, but he heads off to get the Breathalyzer anyway. “Hang tight. Who can we call for you?”