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either.
    Maybe she should drag Valentine out here and show her, but she doubted that even this would go far in convincing that woman. In fact, she was beginning to think that that woman was choosing not to be convinced. She felt a creeping suspicion that Valentine’s apparent dislike for her was an attempt to strengthen her position within the community by targeting the one person she could use to distract the rest of the survivors away from her own agenda.
    She was effectively pointing at Emily and yelling, “Witch!”
    Well, as long as Emily did not end up tied to a stake, she would be able to handle herself. Valentine did not pose much more than an annoyance to her at this point. She was just going to have to steer clear of the conniving bitch until Mac got back and then they could figure out how to deal with her and her cronies, if the need arose.
    She spent a few more minutes pondering the lights, but by the time she decided the air was becoming too chilled for little Adam, she was still none the wiser about what the implications of the Caretakers’ latest pet project might be. She knew that they never did anything without a purpose. This meant something , of that she was absolutely sure. Although God only knew what that might be.
    “Come on, guys,” she said as a cold gust of wind cut through her jacket. “Let’s go home.”

    It was quiet in the apartment without Mac. Too bloody quiet, to quote the man himself.
    So for the first few days after he left, Emily busied herself with anything and everything to help take her mind off his absence, but she found herself pausing during everyday tasks or conversations with others around the camp, waiting for one of his typical Mac one-liners, or—on a rare occasion, at least—a surprisingly deep insight. By day six of his first week away, she realized she was just not the same person without him around.
    The Vengeance was cruising deep and running silent. It would not surface until it reached Svalbard, and even then it would only be above the waves long enough to get Mac and his team off the boat before submerging again in the belief—or maybe it would be better described as hope, as no one had yet put the theory to the test—that the Caretakers would not or could not harm them as long as they stayed below the waves. So there would not even be the opportunity to speak to Mac on the satellite phone. She would know nothing about him until the submarine returned to Point Loma in eight to twelve weeks . . . if it returned.
    “Goddamn it,” she said to herself. “You have to stop thinking like that.” All in all, she was doing a pretty damn good job of dealing with his absence. That feeling of unease from the first few days had finally dimmed to a small burning spot in her stomach, but it would occasionally flare up and scorch her. But at least she was getting better at containing those sudden outbreaks of melancholy.
    Emily eased the door to Rhiannon’s bedroom open and peeked around. “Knock, knock,” she said. Rhiannon was sitting up in bed, reading an old hardback book that, if the tattered cover was anything to go by, had seen better days.
    “What’s the book?” Emily asked, sitting down on the edge of the creaking mattress.
    Rhiannon flashed her the cover: The Prisoner of Zenda .
    “Good choice,” Emily said with a smile. “You okay?”
    Rhiannon nodded, then after a second said, “They’ll be okay, won’t they? They’ll come back, you promise?”
    “Of course they will, hon,” Emily said, surprised at how easily the half truth slipped off her tongue. “A few more weeks and they’ll be home. Don’t you worry.” Emily reached down and eased the book out of Rhiannon’s hands. “How about I read to you?”
    Rhiannon nodded. Emily began to read.
    Twenty minutes later and Rhiannon’s soft snores told Emily the girl was deeply asleep. She placed the closed book on the nightstand and pulled the sheets gently up to the girl’s chin, placed a light