Page 19

Coming up to the mirror, I look through the two-way glass and see the bakery is still empty and dark. I push on it, but it doesn’t give. I flash my light around the frame, feeling with my hands until I run across a latch. I press it, the mirror giving way with a quiet click and opening into me.

That’s what he did. My stomach drops a little, remembering the sensation of falling backward. I step into the shop, casting my eyes and light around one more time to make sure it’s empty, and keeping my eye on the street outside the windows for movement.

I search the outside of the mirror, looking for a way in from this side, but as I paw around the ornate gold frame, all I feel are the same straight lines, leaving no space between the mirror and the wall. How many people know about this? Are there more entrances to the hideout?

I pull my sleeve down over my hand and wipe my blood off the mirror. Headlights reflect on the store windows across the street, and I dive back through the secret entrance, pushing it closed. Looks like he didn’t lie about that. There’s no way in that I can see. He must access it through the roof normally, but then that raises the questions… Is he the only one who knows about this place? How’d he know that it was here to begin with? Is it part of the bakery that his family owns?

I jog back down the hallway, coming into the great room again and see the stars dot the night sky out of the windows. The room is large, but it’s long, not wide. Narrow. Sandwiched between two businesses, the pastry shop and Rivertown. This place isn’t accessible to either the street or the alleyway, but you can tell it’s here from the outside. Unfortunately, most of us and our untrained eyes would just assume the windows belonged to one of the adjoining businesses.

Up the stairs again, and through the door in the ceiling, I step up onto the roof and turn off my flashlight, doing a scan of the empty space. The roof connects to others.

Fire escape. That’s what he meant. Over the side of the roof.

Trees dot the curb on High Street, giving me cover from anyone who might be up high enough to see me, but I peer over the edge, noticing the sidewalk is in full view. It’s a good spot. I can see whomever would be there. They wouldn’t be able to see me.

Taking one more look around, I dive back into the hideout and close the door over my head.

I don’t have a phone. I have to get one. I walk as quietly as possible back into the surveillance room, catching sight of Golden Boy on the monitors. He must have cameras inside this place.

He’s jump roping. How cute. We’re running for our lives, and bro-for-brains is pursuing inner calm with endorphins and green tea.

But I linger on his image for a second, finally forcing my eyes away and kind of wishing the image of him without his shirt was clearer.

Using the mouse, I load the Internet, bringing up my account and type out a message to Hugo. A rare car streams past a few of the screens here and there in front of me, activity dying down in town, and I spot a patrol car turning onto High Street and hold my breath as it slowly cruises past the bakery and then Rivertown, not stopping.

Don’t let him hurt anyone, I type out to Hugo.

Reeves will get his money one way or another. He may not tackle Hawke’s high-profile family, but mine is fair game.

I’ve never asked you for anything, I write. I’ll get the money back.

I know you will.

Desperation breeds motivation, right? I remind him of his words to me years ago.

But are you desperate enough? he asks.

I stare at his words on the screen, understanding the implied threat.

Leave them alone.

I would never hurt them, Aro. Come home.

I stand there, leaning over the desk and my fingers hovering over the keyboard. This is the part of being in trouble I hate. But it’s the part I’m good at. There’s never been a decision for me that’s as easy as right and wrong. It’s simply finding the choice that leaves me with the most options and the least consequences.

If I go back, there are two outcomes with Reeves. A bullet or a bed.

You’re only prolonging the inevitable, Hugo types when I don’t respond. Put yourself out of your misery, baby.

But bullet or bed, my siblings would be safer than they are now. I have to go back.

I log off, close out the screen, and back away like he’s about to reach through the monitors and take me.