A moment after that, he’s in the back of a police cruiser, one of four that has screeched in at them from out of nowhere.

A chaos of images.

A compression of time.

Zack stands there.

Stunned.

Alive.

Lopez looks at Zack with the edges of a satisfied smile. Answering before Zack can even ask.

“You had something to tell me at the precinct but chickened out at the last second,” Lopez says, brown eyes sparkling. “Which meant it was either nothing—or something you were too scared to say. I saw the look on your face, Zack.”

Lopez’s confused expression at the precinct when Zack suddenly got up. Apparently not the only telltale expression between them.

“So I looked at the desk sergeant’s check-in log. A burglary at your apartment, you said, but you gave an address that doesn’t exist. Something was up.

“I checked the precinct’s surveillance camera mounted in the corner. You’re running out, obviously scared. You checked your phone as you got a call. I froze the frame with the phone number on it, zoomed in tight, traced the number. It belongs to a Zack Yellin. Your own number, calling you. Something was definitely up.”

The street is already returning to its usual rhythm. The rush of pedestrians, the flow of traffic, the unremarkable sight of a single police cruiser still at the curb.

“I guess it won’t surprise you that the GPS was disabled on the phone in your hands. But on your own phone, it was turned on. We headed toward its signal but it was moving around on us. At the same time, we pulled your phone’s most recent calls, several to a Steve Furman, and we found his address, a fifth-floor walk-up, and made the discovery…”

Oh God…

Oh no…

Zack feels the vomit start to rise again.

“He’s in the hospital,” says Lopez. “We got there in time.”

The relief that floods Zack is so overwhelming, so dizzying and disorienting that he struggles to follow the rest of what Lopez is saying.

“We were also checking Zack Yellin’s most recent credit card purchases, and we tracked you down to a GreenGirl, and just missed you there apparently. Almost lost you in the crowd when I caught sight of you, but you’ve got that red hair.” Lopez smiles.

Zack stands there, momentarily speechless, amazed.

He thought he’d been pretty smart about the eight-digit prisoner ID.

He was clearly just an amateur.

“Jesus. You move fast, Detective Lopez.”

Lopez taps his palms against his considerable belly. “Only when I have to.” Then he tilts his head inquisitively. “Something tells me you’ve got something for me, Zack?”

“It’s in the Cloud.”

Lopez grins. “I love a Cloudy day.”

Three hours later, their statements completed, Zack and Emily exit the precinct.