Chapter 12
Selina
The winter air bit my cheeks as we stepped out of the cramped stairwell of our rented studio and into a narrow street in ?i?kov.
Steam pushed from my mouth and blew away on the wind funneled between old buildings.
This wasn’t the postcard part of Prague.
No spires. No cobblestone squares. Just worn apartments and people who didn’t care about tourists.
Specter tugged his scarf higher, hiding his mouth.
His eyes kept moving, checking windows, corners, reflections.
Thirty hours since Munich. Thirty hours since I’d straddled him on a snow-buried balcony and kissed the self-hate down long enough for him to breathe.
Since I’d shown him I wasn’t afraid of what lived under all that control.
We kept moving. A stolen car with Czech plates. A bus with too-curious passengers. This studio with a sagging mattress and stubborn heat. In between, we worked on his broken memories: children, blood, and donuts with purple filling that set everything off.
“Map check,” he murmured as he slid close to study the tourist guide I unfolded. His shoulder pressed mine. Casual, but at the same time, not casual at all.
“We’ll draw attention if we stand still.”
I nodded, then walked. “Three blocks to the tram.”
He guided us into the pedestrian flow and let his palm settle at the small of my back. That touch warmed me more than my coat. The trip from Munich had given us time to pick at his memory with clinical distance. Or the closest we would get when the topic might be murdered kids.
“I still think it might be manufactured,” I said.
“You’re overthinking again.” He merged with the morning crowd, injured hand tucked in his coat.
“Force of habit. I’ve been trying to piece it together since Munich.”
“The one where I slaughtered children?” His jaw set. “Not much to interpret.”
“That’s what I’m not convinced of.” We passed a cluster of workers. I kept my voice even. “Memory isn’t literal, especially recovered memory. The dark-haired woman you mentioned—”
“The blood was literal enough.”
A tram roared by. I edged closer and bumped his shoulder. “Children can symbolize a lot. Innocence. Potential. Protected things. Lost things.”
His gaze swept the faces around us, never resting long. “Or they were kids I killed.”
We stopped at a corner and studied the guide we’d grabbed at the tourist center. The smell of fresh pastries curled from a cart. A knot of schoolkids in uniforms clustered there, talking over each other.
Specter tracked them. Something tightened and then flattened in his face.
“The orphanage should be in Karlín,” I said. “From your visualization. Blue trim around windows. A cross above the entrance.”
“The memory wasn’t that clear,” he said quietly. “Fragments. Kids. Donuts. The woman. ‘St. Elisabeth’ came later when we stared at the map.”
We’d found St. Elisabeth Orphanage listed just outside the center. Quick searches only. Nothing Oblivion could easily follow.
Burner phone on public Wi-Fi, just long enough to confirm St. Elisabeth existed on the Karlín side. Whether it matched his memory, I wasn’t sold. He wanted to follow it anyway.
“Map check,” he said, louder for anyone watching. He tapped the guide.
I opened it and played lost tourist. “The guidebook says this area has the best kolaches.”
His mouth curved. Almost a smile. “Always thinking with your stomach, aren’t you?”
The easy talk steadied me. After everything, after the threats and the way my boundaries lay in ruins, we’d built something I couldn’t name. I didn’t want to lose it.
“I need fuel for my genius,” I said, leaning into the act. “Unlike some people who run on pure stubbornness.”
He stepped closer, arm brushing mine, pretending to read the map. “Stubborn got us this far.”
We walked streets where old buildings crowded in. The way he moved felt practiced, as if he knew the place, though he swore he didn’t remember Prague.
“How sure are we about this?” he asked after a quiet stretch. “My memory and that orphanage.”
“It’s our best lead. During visualization, you mentioned crosshatched windows—”
“Could be anywhere in Eastern Europe.”
“And purple filling staining a white tablecloth. When I showed you photos, you reacted to the skyline.”
He glanced at me, eyes warming for a beat. “Could be coincidence.”
“You don’t believe in coincidence any more than I do.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. “Fair point.”
“So how tourist are we playing this?” He steered us around German backpackers. “We can be lost Americans or pretentious art students. Dealer’s choice.”
“Clueless but enthusiastic Americans,” I said. “People don’t expect danger from clueless.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m extremely dangerous when confused,” he said, his tone dry.
“Just remember to smile sometimes. Your default face is too…”
“Too what?” He lifted a brow.
“Like you’re counting how to kill everyone on this street.”
He laughed. A real one. “That’s because I am.”
“Specter.”
“Habit.” He loosened on purpose. Then he slipped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me in like this was a vacation. “Better?”
“Much. The smile needs work though.” I touched his cheek and nudged the corner of his mouth up with my thumb. “Less serial killer, more vacation selfie.”
His gaze softened. He caught my hand and pressed his mouth to my palm before letting go. It felt natural, which was a lie and also not. Somewhere between Munich and here, the line between the act and the truth had blurred.
“How about I admire the architecture and nod?” he said. “Tourist with academic interests.”
“Perfect. I always wanted to date a pretentious architecture nerd.”
The Word date hovered between us, naming something we’d both sidestepped.
“Look impressed by that building,” I said, nodding at a weathered facade with carved stone. “Two hundred years old, at least.”
He lifted the camera and took a few shots. Under his breath: “Three exits. The camera on the corner’s overdue for maintenance. The café across the street would make decent cover.”
I bumped his shoulder. “Not what tourists notice.”
“No?” He leaned closer, mouth near my ear. “What do they notice?”
“The little things. Flower boxes. The way morning light hits the stone.”
“The flower boxes could hide a compact weapon,” he replied. “And the light creates glare that messes with facial recognition.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yet you’re here.” His fingers threaded through mine. Like that was natural too.
A swarm of schoolkids burst past, laughing in Czech, winter coats and bright backpacks turning them into moving toys. Specter went rigid. His grip on my hand tightened hard enough to hurt.
I watched his face. The kids turned down the block and their voices faded. His eyes had gone far away, locked on something only he could see.
“Specter,” I said, steady and soft. “They’re just kids walking to school.”
He blinked and came back. “I know.”
We turned off the busy street. Foot traffic thinned fast. Deeper into the gap between districts, the city went quiet. Morning shoppers fell away. A few dog walkers hurried along, heads down against the cold.
“Anything else coming back?” I asked at a normal volume.
He swept the street once more. “It smelled like pine disinfectant. And wool. Floors creaked in certain spots. I stepped over them.” His tone went clinical. “A painting of a saint in the entrance hall. Faded. One corner had water damage.”
I nodded and shifted into work mode without the room, the desk, or the safety of procedure. “What about emotional texture? When you see those kids, what lands in your body?”
“Nothing.” His face stayed still. “That’s what bothers me. If I’d killed them, shouldn’t I feel something?”
“Not always. Compartmentalization is common.”
An elderly woman passed with a small terrier. A polite nod. Then we were alone again.
“The memory feels observed,” he said once she was gone. “Like I’m watching through glass. Not participating.”
His hand brushed mine. Just a tap. Then it dropped. Not romantic. A grounding wire. I had started to expect these small touches, the way he anchored himself without losing awareness.
Buildings grew more worn as we walked. Concrete blocks from another era gave way to older structures with peeling paint and cracked cornices. He didn’t check the guide this time. He nodded at a cross street.
“Left at the next corner.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
We turned onto a narrow road that curved and dead-ended. The place was empty. At the end sat a stone building behind rusted iron gates, or what was left of it. The right wing stood. The center and left were black, open to the sky where a roof should be.
I watched him take it in. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed and his breathing settled into a slow, even rhythm.
“St. Elisabeth’s,” he said.
We moved to the gates. A weathered notice flapped there. Czech text faded, with an English translation beneath: CLOSED DUE TO ELECTRICAL FIRE. NO TRESPASSING. DANGER.
“Convenient timing,” he said, flat.
I leaned in and checked the date. “Almost two years ago. Before your memories started coming back.”
“Then Oblivion didn’t torch it because of what I remembered.”
“Are you certain this is the place?” I stared at the burned shell.
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze traveled the remaining structure and stopped at the blue frames on the intact wing.
“This is it.” Absolute.
I pressed my face to the bars, trying to see more. “How do we find out what happened? We’ll need archives. Police reports from the fire.”
“The official story will be scrubbed if Oblivion was involved.”
“There might be people to talk to. Former staff. Kids who—”
My pocket buzzed. I jumped. The burner. Unknown number.
We traded a quick look. Nobody had this number except Mattie.
I hesitated over the answer button.
“Don’t.” Specter covered my hand. “We don’t know who has it.”
“It could be Mattie. She’s the only one we called.”