“Ricky,” I said sharply to Gabriel. “What did you tell—”

“Nothing. I just said we were done and asked him to come get you.”

Ricky skidded to a stop in front of me. His hazel eyes were dark with panic, the collar of his jacket tucked half in, his helmet still attached to the seat.

“I saw the cops,” he said, catching his breath as if he’d run the whole way. “I’d just gotten Gabriel’s text, and I tried calling, and then they whipped by—” He took a deep breath. “Are you okay?”

I nodded.

He swung off his bike, leaving it in the middle of the road. “You don’t look okay, Liv.”

“I—I am. I mean, I wasn’t hurt. It’s—”

“I’ll tell him,” Gabriel said.

“Tell me what?” Fresh panic lit Ricky’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I can—”

“No.”

Gabriel waved Ricky away from me with a look that forbade argument. As he talked, Ricky stiffened and looked toward me, but Gabriel moved in front of him.

Ricky didn’t need a full rundown—not with the police climbing out of their cars—but Gabriel seemed determined to give one. Finally, Ricky turned away, his hands going up, fending off further commentary. Gabriel stepped into his path again and said something, and Ricky nodded, and I heard him say, “Okay, thanks, right, I get it,” obviously intent on escape. Gabriel finally let him go and headed for the police.

Ricky ran his hand through his hair; he looked stunned and a little sick. Then he saw me watching. He caught me in a hug, pulling me tight against him as he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

I buried my face against him. I didn’t cry. That was done for now. I just rested against him and—

Someone cleared his throat beside us. Ricky caught my hand and entwined his fingers with mine. Then he turned to face three uniformed officers. Behind them, Gabriel was talking intently to two detectives.

Two of the officers weren’t much older than me, the third maybe forty. All three looked from me to Ricky—or, rather, to Ricky’s jacket. From their expressions, you’d think they’d just stumbled on an Uzi-toting, cigar-chomping Colombian drug lord. Their reaction to me wasn’t much better, though clearly to them I was more Hannibal Lecter than drug lord.

“You’re the Larsen kid,” the youngest said.

“No,” Ricky said, his voice iron-firm. “She is Olivia Taylor-Jones. Preferably Ms. Jones, but Olivia is fine.”

They gaped at him, as if an ape had spoken English with a Harvard accent.

“And you’re . . . ?” the oldest said.