The metal feels uncomfortable against my stomach, serving as a reminder of the precariousness of my situation. If I could just hold it in my hand it would bring me a sense of comfort and strength—which, I realize, is not unlike the feelings I’ve had while holding Lander’s hand.

How odd that holding Lander is like holding a lethal weapon.

I almost laugh at myself. How can I be having romantic thoughts about Lander when my life could be in danger?

More importantly: my plan could be in danger.

I transfer the gun to my purse. It will be easier to reach and more difficult to drop. I pull on my tennis shoes. I’m not sure what I’m doing or where I’m going. To Lander? Is that wise?

I exit my apartment and take the stairs two at a time until I’m outside in the still night air. On the corner I spot a dealer, which is, strangely, almost reassuring. The world is as it was yesterday and the day before.

What would scare me more now is if the man on the corner was a banker.

I need to get out of here quickly. I start heading toward the subway, keeping my breathing even. I won’t go to Lander’s, not right away. But I will get far away from my apartment, maybe go to one of the all-night cafés near his penthouse and call him from there. I need to figure out what he really knows and what he doesn’t. The worst thing I can do in a crisis is tip my hand.

I’m walking swiftly down the street, praying for a cab, when I hear a voice.

“Psst! Clif Bar lady!”

I look up and see Mary just a little way up, her head peeking out from an alley. Even in the dim street lighting, I can spot the colored pencils sticking out of her hair.

“Clif Bar lady!” she says again, gesturing for me to come forward.

I pick up my pace as I move over to her.

“Mary, I don’t have—” But before I can finish my sentence, she grabs my arm and with surprising strength pulls me into the wide alley . . . where a limo is parked.

And outside the limo are Micah and Javier, standing side by side.

“These guys say they’re family,” Mary says almost scornfully. “Don’t you know better than to ignore your family?”

Javier smiles a slow, treacherous smile as he holds up my phone number in one hand and his phone in another.

I look down at my own phone, which is clasped in my hand. With a shaking finger, I tap on contacts and then look at Lander’s number . . . and realize that someone has changed it, likely while I was in the bathroom at the bar. The texts that came with Lander’s name on them weren’t from Lander at all.