Page 32

The manager has recognized me. That’s why he came up front and took over. That’s why he’s stalling and dragging this out. He recognized me and called the police, and they’re on their way.

Are you serious, Lucy? Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?

Yep, but it’s more believable than his screw-up-manager act. I open my mouth to call after him and tell him to forget it. Then I realize, if I’m right, that’s a dead giveaway.

I exhale a dramatic sigh and look at my phone. The chat app is still open with PCTracy waiting.

LlamaGirl: I’m at the deli counter. I think I’ve been made.

There’s a long pause.

LlamaGirl: The manager took over my order. He kept stalling. Now he took my money to “check” it in the back, saying it’s counterfeit.

PCTracy: Get out.

LlamaGirl: It’s packed, and they all just heard him say my bill was fake.

A pause. I start to lower the phone, ready to solve this on my own. Then he responds.

PCTracy: Put money on the counter. Fives, a ten, something small that’ll cover it. No one counterfeits those.

PCTracy: Then move to the side. Tell the person behind you that you’re getting out of the way so they can be served.

PCTracy: If it’s enough of a crowd, slide toward any rear hall or exit.

I put down a ten and mutter, “Maybe he’ll take this.” Then I turn to the woman behind me and do as PCTracy said. She nods, obviously relieved to finally reach the counter.

As I slip to the side, someone says, “Hey, wait, didn’t she just pass a fake bill?”

“No, asshole,” a man says. “That guy’s screwing her around. Her money’s right here. She’s letting us get our damn lunches.”

I join the crowd where the sandwiches arrive. I stand in one spot, and then I pretend to realize I’m in someone’s way and move closer to the back wall. I keep that up. No one here is paying attention – these people are too far from the front cash to have overheard the counterfeit issue.

There’s a back hall. When I peek into its shadowy depths, a woman says, “Yep, that’s the restroom. Not sure I’d use it, though.” She winks at me.

I make a face. “Desperate times…”

She chuckles as I slip into the rear hall. At the restroom door, I glance back. No one’s watching. Two more steps, and I push open the exit and step out, exhaling as the door shuts behind me.

A delivery truck turns into the service lane, taking up the whole width of it. The driver motions, as if to say, “Wherever you came from, lady, go back inside.”

I head the other way. Behind me, the driver taps his horn impatiently. I wave and pick up speed. A door slams, and over the patter of my sneakers, I hear the driver call me some choice names.

I duck into a passage between buildings. At the slap of boots behind me, I glance back, thinking the driver is coming after me, but he’s heading for a delivery door, still grumbling. I wait there in the shadows as the door creaks open and then smacks shut.

I turn and–

Someone walking down the alley stops short, seeing me. I catch only a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a hat and dark clothing.

The police.

I wheel and take two running steps, only to see the delivery truck blocking the alley. Blocking me in.

It’s over. I am caught. Well and truly caught, and even as my stomach plummets, a frisson of relief darts through me.

Time to turn myself in.

My stomach spasms. Not at the fear of a lifetime in prison. I don’t honestly see that happening. No, the wild panic bubbling inside me comes from photographs that flash before my eyes.

Me in the hot tub with Colt.

Me in that motel-room doorway.

And now me being arrested for Isabella’s murder. Photos of me, disheveled and exhausted. My mug shot plastered across the Internet.

It doesn’t matter whether the case is dismissed tomorrow. I will already have been found guilty in the court of public opinion.

I want to say it doesn’t matter. I survived before, and I’ll survive again. Yet even as I think that, my body betrays me, shaking convulsively, screaming to run, just run.

No.

I am caught, but I will handle this. I will survive it.

Brave words, yet even as my body pivots toward the officer, hands rising, I’m half-blinded by sheer, gibbering terror, that voice screaming that I cannot do this again, cannot, cannot, cannot.

Will.

I will.

I’m turning to face him, my hands raised in surrender and–

A fist slams into my jaw. I stagger, so shocked that my brain only processes what just happened as pain explodes in my jaw. Hands grab me, and I scramble, clawing uselessly, my mind fighting for traction.

What’s happening?

What the hell is happening?

Memory flashes, and in a blink, the alley is night-dark. It’s 2009, and I’m walking from my job waitressing outside Syracuse. Someone grabs me and throws me against a wall.

The alley brightens again, shadowed light and the stink of summer trash. Hands pin me to the wall, and I struggle for that mental footing as the world threatens to dive back into that memory.

“I-I’m not resisting,” I say finally. “I’m not carrying a weapon. Go ahead and pat me down. My ID is in my wallet. I’m Gen– Lucy Callahan.”

There’s a pause. Then a low, masculine laugh as lips bend to my ear. “You think I’m a cop, Lucy?”

I freeze.

Of course he’s not a cop. He just hit you .

Which doesn’t mean he absolutely isn’t a police officer.

He’s not a cop, Lucy. This is the important part. You are pinned to the wall by a man who is not a police officer.

I can’t think straight. Memories surge, and all my energy goes to holding the dam against them.

Dark alley. Footsteps behind me. Hands slamming me into the wall.

This is not that. Focus on this.

“I-I have money,” I say. “A few hundred in my wallet–”

“I think the price of freedom is more than a few hundred dollars, Lucy. I think it’s more than you can afford to pay. Do you have any idea how much you’re worth right now? There’s someone who’ll pay very well to–”

He whispers the rest against my ear, but I don’t catch it. It’s like a nightmare where you’re struggling to hear what someone’s saying because you know it’s critically important, but all you hear is a buzz of words. He’s leaning too close, his words garbled.

“Wh-what?” I say.

He pulls back and something presses against my spine. A gun, I think at first. But the moment it presses harder, I know exactly what it is. I remember.

The cold tip of a knife digging in.

Dark alley. Footsteps behind me. Hands slamming me to the wall. Then a knife pressed to my throat as I stare into the eyes of my attacker, a woman my own age, her breath thick with booze.

I-I – I began. You were at one of my tables.

And I didn’t leave a tip , she said. I decided to save that for later. Do you want it now, Lucy Callahan?

My throat closes, and I open my mouth, but nothing comes out except a low whimper as my insides convulse.

Here’s the tip, she said, pressing the knife against my throat.

You can’t get away with what you did. You think you did.

You think you got off scot-free after trying to ruin Colt’s career, destroy his marriage.

You think no one cares. But his fans do.

I have been looking for you a very long time, Lucy Callahan. With a message from Colt’s true fans.

The knife pulls away from my throat, and there is one shuddering moment of relief before I see her arm swing back, the knife slashing–

I let out a noise. I feel it bubbling up, an animal cry, and then I see the brick wall in front of me and shadowy daylight all around as I’m flung back to the present, and whatever noise I make, it is enough to startle my attacker.

I shove back from the wall as hard as I can, slamming into him. I hit him hard, and then I run. My brain mercifully clicks on, telling me that if he only has a knife, my best bet is to run.

What it fails to remind me of, though, is that the delivery truck blocks the alley. I don’t stop running. I race forward, and then I hit the ground in a dive and roll under the truck.

I crawl as fast as I can, ignoring the pain shooting up from my skinned palms. Move, just move! Behind me, my attacker’s footfalls thunder down the alley. A thump, as if he’s dropping to his knees to crawl after me. Then a door behind him creaks open.

“Hey!” a voice calls. “Asshole! What the hell are you doing with my truck?”

I send up a prayer of thanks for the delivery man as I scramble out from under the truck. Then I run.