Page 48 of Hunted to Be Mine
“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.”
