The sound of footsteps across the street froze me in place. Malachi’s heart picked up a fast, heavy rhythm, and he braced himself in the doorframe, pressing harder against me, making sure no part of us was visible from the mouth of the alley. From over his shoulder, I watched the beam of a flashlight skitter back and forth across the bricks, and I held my breath until it finally disappeared. Crunching gravel told me the cop was headed back to the cruisers.

I looked up to see Malachi, his face in shadow, gazing down at me. “I think they’re gone,” I whispered stupidly.

He nodded. I could barely see his face, had no idea what his expression would tell me if I could. But I knew it so well, had long since memorized every plane, every angle. If I could have, I would have run my fingers across his skin and read him with my fingertips. I knew that was off-limits, though, so I settled for staring, hoping he couldn’t see my face either.

I drew in a shaky breath. “Do you think Henry got away?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his even tone giving way, turning ragged.

“Should we go?”

He didn’t answer for a long time, just kept staring down at me, unreadable and unmovable. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “For being harsh to you earlier. You didn’t deserve that.”

“It’s all right,” I breathed.

“No, it’s not.”

As if it had a will of its own, my hand rose between us and rested against his cheek. When I realized what I was doing, I pulled it away, but Malachi caught it and held it to his face. Every part of my body came alive as the stubble on his cheek abraded my palm, and I stroked my thumb over his mouth. The hitch in his breath almost made my knees buckle. It nearly made me forget everything. But then … he cleared his throat and stepped back into the alley.

“There’s a passage back here between the buildings,” he said, all business again, leaving me wondering if that moment between us had been a figment of my fevered imagination. “Now that they’ve checked back here, we can probably make it out unnoticed.”

We crept through the narrow alley, and then along a gap between two rusty chain-link fences, emerging about a block from the lot. I poked out my head to make sure we weren’t emerging at the exact wrong time and peered back at the abandoned lot, now full of official vehicles and lit by spotlights. Detective DiNapoli was standing outside the building, watching over the swarm of activity with an impassive expression. The sight of him made my stomach hurt. I hoped Henry was okay—and that he’d gotten the knives we’d lost in the fight.