Above us, a door rattles in the stairway. I jump at the intrusion. Before I have a chance to look up, he grabs me and spins me around to face the second-floor exit door. With one hand clenching my bicep, he stands over me almost like he’s blocking me from whoever could be coming. My back presses against his chest, only this time it feels oddly protective. My nerves thrum with adrenaline. We stare at the third-floor door hovering ajar.

“You’re seeing things,” a whiny female voice says on the other side of the door. “She’s not here.”

I think of the couple running through the bookshelves. Their silly little cat and mouse game.

“I don’t want to take the stairs,” she says. “C’mon.”

The door rattles.

And then just like that, it closes. No one is coming.

“Was that them?” My words come out as an exhale.

“I don’t know,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Let’s not find out.”

He nudges me forward, but I plant my feet. “Why are you doing this?”

His eyes flit back and forth between mine. “I knew your dad,” he says quietly.

For a moment, his words tug at my heart and I believe him. “He’s dead,” I say in a near whisper. “There’s no way to prove that.”

Facing each other, this guy towers over me, making me feel little and inadequate. He looks about my age, but he’s already proven to be stronger and faster than me. If he is lying and this is all some kind of trick to kill me, I don’t know how I’ll escape.

He glances at the floor before staring at me with an intensity that almost makes me squirm. “He helped me once.” His face remains hard-set, but there’s emotion behind his expression. For whatever reason, I can’t pinpoint what it is.

My dad was a prosecuting attorney for the city. Most likely—if this guy is even telling the truth—my dad cut a deal to get him out of whatever offense he’d committed: drugs, theft, murder.

Several seconds of awkward silence pass before he says, “We need to move.”

He’s right. That couple could change their minds and burst through these doors any second.

I dig through my bag, trying to settle the shake in my hands as I put on my hat, my scarf.

In one swift motion, he pulls his hooded sweatshirt over his head and holds it out to me. “It’s big, but you’ll be less . . .” He looks me up and down, making me self-conscious. “Noticeable.”

Something about putting on his sweatshirt terrifies me.

“This”—I gesture to my disguise—“has always worked for me.”

His lips twist into a scowl. “Consistency will get you killed.”