HOW MANY ANSWERS YOU SEEK ARE JUST A PART OF YOU, WAITING TO BE FOUND?
The game has changed.
Fresh from her first brush with mortality, a fragile Sadie Matthau is playing human in New York while the Survivors endure unimaginable tragedy. Wrought wit...
I turned around and went to my bedroom, closed the door and called Everett. "How good are you getting at teleporting?"
"Pretty good, I'd say. Why?"
"Great, write this down. 246 Spring Street in Manhattan. Trump Soho, 46th floor. Aim for a hallway."
"You're kidding," he said. "I don't know if I'm that good."
"Try to be. Call me when you get here. Okay?"
We disconnected, and thirty seconds later he called back. "I'm in," he said. I told him where I was, and told him to teleport into my room. He landed standing on the bed.
"What's going on?" he asked.
I put a finger over my lips to silence him. I produced the book.
"How did you . . . ?"
I shook my head. "You gotta try a little harder, bro. She asks for crazy things but not impossible things. She reached out to you, tried to involve you, and you didn't come through."
His face dropped. It was always hard to see Everett sad, even though it was a common occurrence.
I handed him the book. "Give it to her."
"How did you get it?"
"It doesn't matter. I just did. Now take it to her, and apologize," I said.
He pulled me toward him and hugged me for real. "Thank you, Polly."
"Don't ment—"
"Really," he said. "For everything."
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I HEARD THEM TALKING A BIT, AND THEN I POPPED IN MY HEADPHONES TO A blaring Jack White track or two. I needed to find Sam now. I needed to focus on her energy, her very core.
Which, theoretically, shouldn't be hard. Once I connected to someone, I could find them more easily. That part Sadie knew. But the part no one, not even Ginny knew? The deeper — or more physical — the connection, the more easily I could find someone. And I'd spent an inordinate amount of time inside Sam . . . in one way or another. At least more than I did with most of the girls. But why could I tell you exactly where the Redhead from LA was eating lunch right now, where a chick I hooked up with in 1979 was on a business trip, but not where Sam was right now when she was within a mile of me?
I didn't know.
I tried hard to delve into the feelings I had for Sam and put them toward tracking her. I searched for the doubt in the pit of my stomach — the same one I'd felt with Narcisa — and the pressure in my chest I usually associated with Madeline. I channeled and re-channeled the blood rush I got when I looked at Sam, touched Sam, undressed Sam . . .
Bad. A bad way to go. Maybe that's why I couldn't find her. How the hell was I supposed to focus on a girl who made me feel like that? How could those feelings lead me to her? When they happened, the last thing I had was focus.
