She didn’t open the envelope until she was safely in a bathroom stall. Her name was written with black marker in near-perfect script. She turned it over and used her nail to open the envelope, sliding out a rectangular room card. Handwritten in the bottom corner in permanent marker was the number 447. She was to go there now. He was probably watching her. She felt suddenly exposed, the stall around her flimsy protection. She signed into her email account from the burner phone, found the draft she’d been working on. What she had on the phone was her version of a police composite: what she thought he looked like, where she thought he worked, where he was from, where he’d instructed her to go. With more time, she could have tracked him down herself, but with Braithe’s life hanging in the balance, she had to trust the job to someone else.

And she did. If she trusted him to be able to do anything, it was this: find what he wanted, what he’d believe to be his. Paul had left a trail, albeit a small one, but it might be enough. She added one last line to the end of her email. It was more of a hopeful line, a hunch. If she couldn’t pull it off, he’d be looking for the wrong person.

He’ll have a broken nose, she typed. She sent the email, then threw the burner phone in the tampon disposal.

Reaching for the box of Band-Aids, she began to work.

The first letter from Taured had come to her apartment in New York. It was on his official church stationery and her first instinct upon opening the envelope was to toss it away from her as far as it would go. But she hadn’t; she’d clutched the paper in her closed fist until she felt ready to read it. She read the letter the same way she would read the five others he sent shortly after, with all the lights in the apartment on and her gun sitting on the counter in front of her. Loaded. How had he found her?

His tone was friendly and light, the threats buried under Bible verses and zealous concerns about her well-being. Last he’d seen her, she’d been just a young girl, and now here he was, reading about her on the internet. She was famous! Hopefully, one day, they’d be able to catch up. The last part had given her nightmares for a week. If Rainy had shown that letter to the police, they would have cocked an eyebrow at her and asked what the problem was. You had to know his language, understand the euphemisms he so often used to dig out what he was really saying:

Hello, I’m still watching you.