Page 4 of Crescendo

“P-pyro?”

“Pyromaniac. You know, arsonist.” He jerks his chin to the smoldering newspaper. “You like settin’ fires or something?”

Piromaníaca?I shake my head. The question doesn’t make sense. Who would enjoy setting something on fire? Though...I can’t deny the shiver that runs through me at the thought of Vinny’s suite, high above the city, doused in flames. How would my room look while consumed by the inferno?

My facial expression must change, because the man laughs, the sound grating against the backdrop of city noise.

“You escape from a mental hospital or something?”

“Something like that,” I hear myself reply.Escape.My mind gets stuck on that word and won’t move on. “Yeah, sure. Something like that.”

“Hmph.” The man shifts, tucking his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt. That simple motion violently puts everything back into perspective. This man is way too close, and I move to stand on the opposite side of the barrels.

“Sorry for bothering you,” I say, which is as polite a brush-off as I can manage. The smart thing to do would be to return to the hotel without having to be escorted back—but for some reason, I can’t move from this spot. The book of matches is still in my hand, and my heart races with the urge to light another. Just one more.

“Oh, yeah. I have some damn nerve getting on a high horse,” the man grunts. Rather than leave, he takes a step closer to the barrels between us, and the motion reveals that he’s carrying something on his back:a backpack. He opens it up and withdraws a round, cylindrical object. I don’t know what it is until he gives it a shake. The can rattles like Vinny’s shaving cream, or...

“S-spray paint?” My voice is still a whisper, but the man nods. I think he might have even winked, but it’s too dim here to be sure.

“Brick walls always look a little better covered in a layer of chemicals, don’t ya think?”

I nod, though I don’t know why. Spray paint paired with brick walls typically infers some kind of graffiti. Vandalism. I glance down at his hands again, and what I’d first mistaken for dirt and grime takes on another identity.

“You paint?”

“Well, now, that’s one way to put it. Come on.” He jerks hishead toward the opposite end of the alley from the way leading to the hotel. “I could use your expert opinion, little Pyro Girl.”

I freeze solid, digging my heels into the pavement. “You should go.” I’ve been so stupid.

Vinny’s man will be here in exactly thirty seconds...twenty-eight seconds. Every bone in my body warns me to walk away before the hound dogs come running, but Ican’t. My brief minutes of freedom were intruded on. It just isn’t fair. He’ll have to leave first.

“Please.”

“Awful strange request to be left alone in an alley with matches, Pyro Girl,” the man says. I realize, for the first time, that he’s concerned. The line of his gaze travels from the matchbook clenched in my fist down to the barrel of newspaper. “What kind of law-abiding citizen would I be if I did that, huh?”

“Some people are coming,” I blurt out, staring down at my clenched left hand. My words come unguarded without Vinny here to filter them, and apparently, the truth is a reckless addiction. “If you’re here when they show up, they’re going to put a bullet in your head.”

“Oh, is that so?” The man seems to mull it over, but shock isn’t one of the emotions that crosses his shrouded features. In the end, he laughs. “Well then, that will be one hell of a way to end my night. Come on.” He holds a hand out to reinforce the words that seem like a command on the surface. But they aren’t. A request? A question.

For five precious seconds, I eye his hand. It’s entirely possible this graffiti artist who smells like cigarettes and stale body odor means to lure me down the alley for some nefarious purpose. Would God really be so cruel as to throw me into the frying pan twice in one night? Could he really be so merciful?

My time is almost up, but I don’t hear footsteps. Vinny’s man is a second late, and I seize the moment by nudging the stranger’s palm with one outstretched finger. Handshakes. Hand holding—those embraces most people take for granted. I can’t remember how to initiate them properly.

Amused by my attempt, the man laughs. Then he flexes his fingers and captures my entire wrist in a firm grip.

“Come on, Pyro.”

I try not to balk when he steers me down the narrow alley and then toward an even narrower strip between two buildings. Like a snake, the man weaves in and out through the tight spaces, bracing his back against the wall. Left with no choice, I copy him, sucking my waist in.

Eventually, we reach another alley. Then another—but we seem to be moving in circles. I bet we’re only a block or so away from the hotel, but for some reason, he prefers to take the backstreets. I’m sure the thought should terrify me. Instead, it intrigues me.

“So...do you like art?”

“Huh?” I frown at the question.

“Art.” The man chuckles. “Though I suppose I should have asked that questionbeforedragging you off to see my mural, huh?”

It seems like a rhetorical question, so I don’t answer. It isn’t until he glances back at me that I remember what he initially asked.