I don’t really like the idea of running and hiding, disconnected from my family and especially my work. But that fire scared me. More than the near-drowning. It felt like an escalation—like a mark of this guy’s desperation to get at me, no matter how safe and protected I might think I’ve made myself.

“I do need to call Dean,” I tell Raylan. “If I just disappear, and I’m not answering any calls or texts, he might call the cops. Bare minimum, he’ll come to my apartment. And probably notice the hole in the side of the building.”

Raylan considers this.

“Fine,” he says, at last. “Call him too, from the motel phone. You have the number memorized?”

I nod. “Yeah, I know it.”

I always remember numbers—addresses, phone numbers, birthdays. And the numbers in legal files. I don’t know why they stick in my brain. I could tell you case file numbers from years back. It’s useless information most of the time—I’d rather keep the brain space for something else. But that’s the way my mind works.

Raylan frowns, like he’s annoyed that I know Dean’s number. Like he thinks it means something.

“Can I get a little privacy?” I say.

“Fine,” he says. “But don’t tell Dean where you are. Don’t tell him where you’re going.”

“I know. I won’t,” I promise.

Raylan goes out to wait for me in the car. He doesn’t have to carry any bags out, because of course we don’t have any bags. We threw the remains of our old smoke-stained clothing in the trash.

I pick up the phone sitting on the nightstand and hit the button for an outside line. I can’t remember the last time I made a phone call on a landline. It feels weird holding a receiver instead of a cellphone. Weird to stay connected to the base of the phone by a long, spiraling cord, instead of being free to wander around during the call.

It’s so funny how things change so fast. One minute a piece of technology is a novelty, and before you’ve even noticed, it’s the most normal and natural thing in the world. And the old way seems like a distant dream.

I can hear the phone ringing. I’m planning to leave a message if Dean doesn’t pick up.

Instead, I hear his grumpy and sleepy, “Yeah?” on the other end of the line.

“Dean, it’s me,” I say.

“Riona?” His voice is husky and confused. “What number are you calling from?”

“I’m at a hotel,” I say. I remember Raylan’s injunction against specifying our location.

“Why are you at a hotel?” Dean says. His voice contains equal parts bewilderment and annoyance.

“My apartment, uh, burned down last night.”

“WHAT!?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna be staying somewhere else for . . . a while,” I say.

“Where are you?” And then, after a second’s hesitation, “You can stay at my place, you know.”

“Thanks, but I’m still with . . . I still have Raylan watching me,” I say.