Hope flickers inside me. “Wait. Do you think—could you be the one with the last splinter of Paul inside?”
“I doubt it,” he says evenly. “Your Conley gave you a final set of coordinates. He’s trying to win your trust, so I doubt he’d falsify that information.”
Probably so. I slump back in my chair, disappointed.
Paul remains focused. “You sabotaged the Firebird technology in one world, but made sure it survived in another.”
I nod. “It’s not much. Still, we have to start somewhere. You guys are closer to the source. Maybe you know how we could get at Triad? Really take them down?”
Paul and Theo exchange another glance. Theo says, “She could be spying on us for Conley.”
“Or she could be telling the truth.” Paul’s eyes meet mine, searching.
He wants to believe in me. I wonder if that’s strategy or desperation.
When Paul speaks again, he asks me the last question I would’ve expected: “Which version of me did you trust the most? And the least?”
I don’t even have to think it over. “The Paul from my own universe.”
He cocks his head. “For which?”
“For both.” My first leap into a new dimension comes back to me, as vividly as if I were still standing in London, rain spattering my face and hair, scrawling my mission on a poster: KILL PAUL MARKOV. “I trusted him the least, because it took me too long to understand him. When Triad framed him for my father’s death, I believed it.”
Paul forgave me for that—no. To forgive me, he would have had to hold it against me in the first place. He never did. I would have walked away from a love like that.
“But he’s also the one you trust the most?” Theo sits in a chair of his own, arms slung slightly backward, legs stretched before him.
I nod. “Once I understood my Paul, I knew he would never knowingly hurt me, or anyone, except in defense. He’s always going to do what he thinks is the right thing—and yeah, sometimes we don’t agree on what that thing is, but his intentions are always good. He’d been lonely so long, before he found us. Every time I think about how lonely he was, it kills me a little inside.” Why couldn’t I have said all this to my Paul? I will, the first chance I get. The next universe over. My vision blurs as I blink back tears, refusing to cry as every other Paul I’ve known flickers through my mind, from a mobster’s son to my cherished Lieutenant Markov. He’ll have a place in my heart forever, and there are others I could have cared for, but . . . “I could go to a million universes and never find someone else who could make me feel this way. Only my Paul. Only him.”
Theo makes a sound, totally familiar from my own Theo, like Spare me the sap. But Paul gives him a look that silences him instantly.
To me Paul says, “One thing’s certain—you’re not this world’s Marguerite Caine. Even if you’re not telling me everything, I can tell you hate Triad as much as we do.”
“Great, here we go,” Theo groans. There’s no fire in his voice, though; he might gripe as he follows Paul’s lead, but he’ll follow.
Paul rises to his feet. “Yes, we’re working with her, and with the other you. So brace yourself for a reminder.” Theo swears under his breath.
I stand up too, happy to no longer be a captive. Paul’s understanding makes me suspect: “Did you travel between dimensions, when you were still with Triad?”
“Once or twice.”
“So which one of me did you trust the most, or the least?”
It’s supposed to be a lighthearted question, to break the tension. But Paul’s expression hardens, like the mobster’s did right before he fired. “I’d have to say you’re the version I trust the most.”
Me? He hardly knows me.
“Tell her the least,” Theo demands as he sits down, preparing himself for the painful jolt of a reminder. Paul says nothing. Theo laughs. “Fine, I’ll tell her.”
“Tell me what?”
Theo smirks up at me and says, “The version of you we trust the least is this one. Our own Marguerite Caine, the most loyal follower Wyatt Conley ever had—and the coldest bitch in the entire multiverse.”
26
I KEEP WAITING FOR PAUL TO TELL ME THEO IS JOKING, OR for Theo’s expression to finally shift into his usual cocky grin as he tells me the look on my face is priceless. They don’t.
Already I knew I was working for Wyatt Conley. But willingly? Why would I do that? As soon as I ask myself the question, though, I realize the answer. “It’s because of Josie,” I say. “My sister. I don’t know if you knew her—”
“We did.” Paul speaks quietly, but whatever’s lurking behind his words, it isn’t sympathy.
“My parents aren’t like this. Not in most dimensions. You must have seen that for yourself, right?” When Paul nods, and Theo’s smirk vanishes, I know I’m on the right track. “Here, they’ve lost one of their children, and they’ve fallen apart.”
Theo folds his arms across his chest. “That’s no excuse.”
“No, it’s not. Still, we just have to bring them around. All they want to do is see Josie again.”
Theo snorts. “I’ll say.”
This version of Theo is kind of a snot. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
It’s Paul who replies, not with an answer but with another question. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Mom and Dad explained.”
“Not everything. Not if you’re still defending them.” Paul looks at me as if—as if he feels sorry for me.
In the first moment I realized my parents were cofounders of Triad, shock and horror almost overwhelmed me. Those emotions well inside me again, deeper than before. “Tell me,” I whisper.
Paul shakes his head. “If it comes from me, you won’t believe it. You’ll have to hear it from them yourself.”
“It’s not all about Josie,” Theo shoots back. “For you, I mean. The Marguerite Caine in this universe loves screwing with all your minds. The power she has over her other selves—she gets off on it. Lives for it.”
“How would you know?” I shoot back.
Paul steps between us, maybe fearing what would happen if we really got into it. “I’m sorry, Marguerite, but it’s true. You say so yourself. You manipulate the lives of your other selves, just because you can. I’ve seen you quit schools, ruin paintings, wreck cars, pick fights.” After a long moment, he adds, more quietly, “Sleep with other guys. Other girls, once in a while. Whoever. It doesn’t matter to you, as long as it hurts someone.”
He won’t meet my eyes. He’s felt the emotions of another Paul who went through that.
I keep my head high. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
Again with the snort from Theo. Paul at least has the decency to look sorry about what he has to say. “It sounds like the Marguerite Caine we know. She always says playing with other selves—seeing just how much she can change or destroy—she calls it an art form. Says it’s sculpting, but instead of clay, she uses lives.”
A hollow feeling opens up in my belly, but I don’t let myself believe it. “Whatever. I’m not her, so deal with me. What do you want?”