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“And where are you going to go?” he retorts.

We descend the stairs, and I follow him as he veers right and steps into a room with no windows, cement walls, and an array of monitors posted above a desk, camera footage displayed on the screens. I catch sight of intersections, the ticket booth for their movie theater, the lanes inside the bowling alley. Rivertown.

“You just lost what…?” he challenges. “Eighty, maybe ninety grand from the looks of what was in that bag, not counting the three-dozen bags of blow hidden underneath.” He takes a seat at the desk, observing the screens. “If Green Street doesn’t get to you first, that cop will, because I’m guessing it was his. They’ll already be staking out your house.”

“You think I’m going to sit around here and wait for you to turn me over to them?” I reply. “Or use me for whatever bullshit you have planned? Pinche gringo pervertido pedazo de mierda…”

He glances at me. “Up the stairwell,” he says, typing away on his screen and inputting some kind of code. “To the roof. There’s a fire escape.” He pushes his keyboard away from him, shoves his chair back on its wheels, and rises, reaching behind a hard drive and yanking out cords. “Bye.”

I hesitate for just a moment. I didn’t expect him to let me leave. Why the hell did he grab me in the first place then?

Spinning around, I stalk out of the room, run back up the stairwell we just came down, but instead of heading back down the dark hallway, I turn right and see a faint light from the other end of the tunnel. I make my way over, coming into a great room, and I stop in my tracks, my mouth falling open a little.

Jesus. I tip my head back and gape at the high ceiling, the night sky visible through the windows above. Couches sit around the space, a TV set up as well as a few industrial-looking chandeliers. A kitchen sits to the back, countertops and appliances making it suitable for someone to live here long term, and I see a spiral staircase leading to a door in the ceiling above.

I rush over, grabbing the railing and launching myself up the stairs, around and around until I come to the top. I hunch over, the space small as I push my weight up onto the hatch and lift it. The welcome fresh air of the evening breeze caresses my face, and I see the tops of the trees that line High Street loom past the expanse of the roof.

I start to push the door all the way open but then stop.

Where will I go? What if I want to get back in?

Does the mirror open from the outside?

I drop the hatch, closing it again and descend the stairs until I can stand upright.

I stop, thinking. He’s letting me leave. He’s not a threat.

Yet anyway.

And he’s right. The police won’t be the only ones after me. If I get taken, I’m no good to Matty and Bianca. Right now—maybe—I still have a chance.

I descend the stairs, glancing at the brick wall to my left, in front of the couches, and see words written in large white script. The paint looks a hundred years old, and I don’t know what language it is. I don’t care.

I search out the rich kid, finding him still in the surveillance room or whatever he calls it. I don’t know why he helped me, but I know it wasn’t just because he wanted to.

“There will be a warrant out for you,” I tell him, staring at his back as he works. “But unlike me, you can just call Mommy and Daddy. The Trents own this town, don’t they?”

His father’s and uncles’ names are everywhere. Billboards, newspapers, businesses…

“Green Street won’t come after you,” I point out, “especially since you can identify Reeves. I mean, I’ll go to jail, but you’ll be fine.”

He still doesn’t turn to look at me, and I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jacket, leveling my gaze on him.

I’ve seen him plenty of times. I don’t think he’s ever seen me before tonight. He wouldn’t notice someone like me. Unless he’s ordering his caramel Frappuccino.

I step up to him. “Give me my phone.”

“Give me my wallet.”

The image of it plummeting into the pond pops into my head, and he must’ve seen it happen, which is why he knows I don’t have it.

“You can sleep on the couch,” he says as he checks the monitors, probably for police. “And there’s food in the kitchen. If you leave, you can’t get back in without me. Don’t tell anyone about this place, and stay out of my way.”

And he leaves the room, not once looking at me.

A flashlight sits on the desk, and I grab it, heading out of the room. Going back the way we came in, I climb the stairs again and walk down the long hallway, able to see the route more clearly now. The walls are cement, like the floors, but they’re painted black, the ceiling of the tunnel rounded like an arch and cords run along the walls, attaching to lamps overhead every twenty paces.