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I shelved a few more books and dusted a couple more artifact cases, but my mind wasn’t on the tasks, and I was only going through the motions, just like I had ever since Logan had left. More than once, I found myself staring off into space, wondering where he was and what he was doing. If he was okay. If he was cold or hungry or scared or tired.
    If he was thinking about me.
    After about two minutes of that, I’d shake off my sorrow and get angry at for myself for obsessing about him. Vic was right. I really needed to quit brooding and get on with killing Reapers. Or at the very least, finish my homework for tomorrow.
    Easier said than done. Because five minutes later, instead of reading through my myth-history book like I should have been, I found myself thinking about Logan again.
    Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I turned around on my stool and faced Oliver, who was messing with his phone.
    “So . . .” I said in a light voice, trying not to let on how important this was to me. “Have you heard anything from Logan?”
    Oliver froze. He looked at me, then glanced down at the screen. Guilt flickered in his green eyes.
    “You’re texting with him right now, aren’t you?”
    Oliver winced. He typed something else on his phone, then slid the device into his pants pocket. He didn’t answer my question.
    “How is he? Where is he? Is he okay? Is he ever coming back to the academy?”
    They were the same questions I’d asked everyone a hundred times already. The same ones I thought about late at night in my room, especially after I’d had one of my nightmares.
    Oliver sighed. “Logan needs some time, Gwen. He needs some space, from the academy and everything that happened. But yes, to answer your question, he’s fine. At least, that’s what he says when he texts me.” He hesitated. “If it helps at all, he asks about you all the time.”
    “And what do you tell him?” I asked in a soft voice.
    He hesitated again. “That you miss him. That we all miss him. That we need him, and that he should get his ass back here as soon as he can.”
    “And what does he say to that?”
    Oliver shrugged. “Nothing. Just . . . nothing. I don’t know when he’s coming back. I don’t know if he’s ever coming back. Not after what the Reapers did to him. And especially not after what he did to you.”
    I let out a breath. The thought that Logan might never return was one I hadn’t let myself dwell on too much, but now, it was all I could think about, like a cold fist wrapped around my heart and slowly crushing it, crushing me, from the inside out. Suddenly, it was too small behind the checkout counter. Too cramped, too cluttered, and much too crowded for me to catch my breath.
    Oliver noticed my stricken expression. “I didn’t mean that, Gwen. It’s not your fault Logan’s gone.”
    But it was, and we both knew it. I shook my head, grabbed some books, and disappeared into the stacks before Oliver could see how much I was hurting.
     
    Thankfully, Oliver decided not to follow me. I went back to a remote part of the stacks, the spot where Vic’s case had once been. I stood there, eyes closed, books clutched to my chest, trying to breathe. In and out, in and out, in and out, like my mom had taught me to do whenever I was worried, nervous, scared, or upset.
    Worried? Check. Upset? Definitely. And once again, I felt that spurt of anger at Logan for not being here, for leaving me behind to deal with everything.
    It took a few minutes, but my heart stopped aching, and the pressure in my lungs slowly eased. I still felt cold inside, though—cold, dull, and empty. My anger was gone, or at least iced over for the moment, and I couldn’t even cry. My tears seemed to be as frozen as the rest of me felt deep down inside.
    Once again, I went through the motions, shelving the books I’d grabbed. When that was done, I wandered up the stairs to the second floor. It was quieter here, and the only sound was the faint