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So that’s what Charlotte does.

She learns the difference between lonely and alone.

She falls for no one.

Indulges only in the briefest of encounters, trysts that end as quickly as they start, a chance to warm her hands and feed her heart, one-night stands recorded in the blank last pages of a paperback she took from Penny’s place.

The Secret History, it’s called. How fitting.

She keeps the entries simple, brief.

Maddie. The bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

Jess. Freckles like stars across her cheeks.

Chloe. Rings on every knuckle.

Names, notes, fragments of memory, each entry like one of Sabine’s tokens, and yet, the opposite, because she is not keeping track of the lives she’s taken, but of the ones she has saved, protected by her diligence. Her ability to take and leave instead of stay.

For years, in fact, Charlotte doubles back, to make sure each and every one is safe.

For years, she drifts in her own wake, and every time she is rewarded for her sacrifice, because every time, these girls whose lives she’s only grazed, they are alive. They are okay. And that is what matters, isn’t it?

Not her comfort. Not her longing. Not her need for love.

What matters is that they are okay.

For years they are, and so, somewhere along the line, Charlotte stops doubling back, stops checking each and every name. Because it’s hard, and it hurts, and because there is no need.

Sabine has clearly tired of the hunt.

Gone on to find another game.

She didn’t know—how could she know?

So please, believe her when she says—

“I’m sorry, Alice. I really thought you would be safe.”