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I barely reach the bottom of the stairs when the door swings open. I backpedal, hands rising.

It isn’t a cop, though. It’s Karla. She’s a little grayer. Still dressed impeccably with that no-nonsense expression I know so well. Then she sees me. Her eyes widen. Her lips part, and she pauses. Just a split-second pause before she lets the door half close as she takes out her phone.

“I really can’t talk now,” she says, loudly into the phone. “I’m in the middle of something.”

It takes two seconds for me to realize she’s faking a call to give me a chance to run. As I dart through the next room, someone outside calls to Karla. Warns her to come outside, get away from the door.

The police.

Karla arrived just ahead of them. Maybe hoping to speak to me. Maybe hoping to change Tiana’s mind about turning me in.

Our eyes meet, and she nods. Then she turns away to continue her fake call.

I jog through the lower level and find a door. Behind me, Karla’s voice comes clear as she imperiously informs the police that she is Tiana’s manager, and she has every right to be in this place, and they will not order her to do anything.

Thank you, Karla.

I race through the back door. It opens into a yard with a solid, six-foot wood fence. I’m about to crumple in defeat when I spot a gate.

I zoom through the gate and race along the back of the fence as Karla and the police argue, their voices wafting out to me.

Then I cut through to the next street and keep going.

It’s time to end this. I’m not making progress. Not enough, anyway. As annoyed as I am about being stashed away in the hotel, I need to speak to Thompson and negotiate my surrender.

The last time I was in his building, I never got as far as his office. Now that I do, I’m surprised. I thought it’d be just another anonymous door. Instead, the tenth floor is his office.

To be honest, it’s not what I hoped for. I guess, in my mind, I constructed a persona for Thompson, that of the scrappy, tenacious underdog. The guy who plays fast and loose ethically because he’s making a name for himself. What I see here is something very different.

This isn’t a lone defense attorney with a receptionist and an investigator. It’s a full-fledged firm. His firm. Thompson’s name is on the doors with other lawyers listed in smaller print.

I push aside my misgivings. Overall, PCTracy has been good to me. Really good. Time to step up and say to Thompson, “I want to hire you.”

The problem is that I’d expected to walk into a tiny office and deal with a receptionist. There’s no way I’m stepping i nto a firm where I’ll instantly be recognized by a dozen people. Once I pass through those doors, I can’t change my mind, and I still need that option.

I retreat to the stairwell, take out my prepaid and text Thompson.

Me: It’s LC. I’d like to talk.

It takes a minute. Then he responds.

Thompson: I do not recognize this number. Please identify yourself more completely.

Me: Screw me over by calling the cops again, and I’ll report you to the bar association.

Thompson: L, good to hear from you. I presume you’ve had a change of heart?

Me: I’d like to talk. Meet me in the lobby in five minutes. Can you do that?

Thompson: On my way.

I hurry to the floor beneath his. The first elevator to arrive is empty. I push it again. The elevator opens… and Thompson is there. He looks up in surprise.

I get on and then press the Stop button.

Thompson smiles, completely relaxed, brilliant white teeth flashing. “I feel like you’re about to make me an offer I can’t refuse.”

“That depends. I presume you’re still interested in representing me?”

“Very interested, but I would suggest we not talk in a stopped elevator. Let’s head up to the eleventh floor. I have a private office there where we can speak undisturbed.”

“One question first. Who is PCTracy?”

His smile falters. “P. C…” he says, rolling the letters off like initials.

My finger freezes on the button for the eleventh floor.

“PCTracy,” I say slower.

“I have the feeling the answer to this question is very important to you,” he says. “That if I fail your test, I will not have you as a client after all. Which puts us in a very awkward position. I’m not at liberty to answer that question, Ms. Callahan.”

Part of me leaps at his response, calling it perfectly reasonable. Whether he’s PCTracy or it’s an employee, the guy was aiding and abetting a fugitive. Thompson’s hesitation makes sense.

Or it would if PCTracy hadn’t asked multiple times for a face-to-face meeting.

“I understand,” I say. “But I’m sure you understand, too, that under the circumstances, I need a guarantee that I’m speaking to the right person.”

His brows knit. Again, it’s a fleeting reaction, smoothed out in a blink before he says, “You think I’m PCTracy?”

“No, but I need confirmation that you know him.”

He eases back, smiling. “Well, of course I do. You wouldn’t be here, otherwise, correct?”

Does he just not know the name his investigator is using? Possibly, but I can see in his face that he has no clue what I’m talking about. Who I’m talking about.

I take out my phone.

“We really should go upstairs to my office,” Thompson says.

I lift a finger and ping PCTracy.

PCTracy: Perfect timing. I have something for you.

LlamaGirl: I’m with Thompson.

PCTracy: You’re not in the hotel???

LlamaGirl: Daniel Thompson doesn’t seem to know who you are. Is there a reason for that?

PCTracy: Well, possibly because I don’t know who he is, either.

LlamaGirl: If you do, now isn’t the time to be cagey. Just confirm that you’re working with him.

PCTracy: I’m not.

It takes effort to turn off the app. Even more effort to hit the small x and delete it. Part of me screams, “What are you doing?” The other part… The other part keeps remembering the man in the alley, the man in the park.

The man who knew where I was.

PCTracy admitted he knew where I was. That he could track me through the app.

The only reason I didn’t suspect this answer is that I was convinced PCTracy was linked to Thompson. Hell, the only reason I started talking to PCTracy was that I thought he was connected to Thompson. He had to be, right?

No, he just had to be an investigator who tracked down my email address and reached out at a time when I was vulnerable, a time that happened to coincide with my interactions with a defense attorney.

Then PCTracy mentioned he was an investigator who’d worked for defense attorneys, and I made the connection. A completely false connection.

“Ms. Callahan?” Thompson says.

Just hire him. Forget this PCTracy nonsense, and hire him. He’s a good lawyer. He–

He tricked me. Betrayed me. Any positive impression I had of Thompson’s skill came from working with PCTracy. Without that, Thompson is the same treacherous asshole I’d fled on Monday.

I’ve spent two days convinced that the man who was helping me worked for Thompson… was likely even Thompson himself.

He’s not.

“Sorry,” I say with a rueful smile. “I think I got my wires crossed. But it’s fine. I still need a lawyer, obviously. Let’s go chat in that private office.”

I hit the button for the eleventh floor.

When the doors open, I plan to stay on and shut the doors behind him.

Only he nudges me off first. We’re two paces away, and the elevator doors have just started to close when I do a wide-eyed “Oh, shit!” as if I dropped something. I dive back onto the elevator.

As the doors shut, he scrambles to catch them while I pretend to grab something from the floor. I shout, “Be right back!” and the doors close.

Even as the doors close, his footfalls pound the floor. I hit a button. The elevator starts down, and I can’t help but smile, imagining Thompson’s mad dash to the bottom floor. I’ll be long gone by the time he–

The elevator stops, and the doors open, and a quartet of chattering office workers steps on. I hit the third-floor button before the doors shut. When they open again, I squeeze out and jog for the second stairwell.

I fly down and out the side door. I know Thompson will come after me. I know he’ll call staff to come after me. I know he’ll even notify the police to come after me.

When I reach the dumpster where I stashed my bag, I pull on the blond wig and quick-change my shirt. Then I w alk two blocks until I find a suitable spot to pull over and breathe, just breathe.

I screwed up.

God, I screwed up so bad.

I take out my phone, navigate to the browser and log into my old email so I can search PCTracy’s original messages for the clues I should have picked up.

I don’t find any. I can berate myself all I want, but given my frame of mind when I got those messages, my mistake is forgivable.

Which doesn’t mean I’ll forgive myself for it.

I automatically reach for the messaging app to contact PCTracy. I want his advice. Only I find my finger hovering over an empty spot on the screen.

Did I overreact by deleting the app? Possibly. But I need to pursue answers on my own. I can contact him any time I want. If I want. If I trust him again.

I’m not sure that’s possible.