Pausing mid-stride, I consider returning to the scene of my two-hour stakeout. Not a good idea. I already left my departure to the very last second. If I double back to Carmine’s, I’ll be spotted for sure. I will also have to deal with another round of questioning about my half-eaten pizza. Unfortunately, it’s not exactly unusual for me to leave something unfinished.

I do everything halfway. Leaving a project done somewhere in the middle is my specialty. In the closet of my apartment, one would find a half-knitted sweater, an application for culinary school completed to page five out of ten, and a crate full of arrowroot starch and essential oils leftover from the natural deodorant business I semi-started—and by semi started, I mean I bought the ingredients and thought of a clever name.

Pit-ter Patter.

Okay, it’s sort of clever.

At least I will make it all the way home tonight where I will face plant in some tequila.

That I can do without stalling out somewhere in the middle.

There’s no line for the tram, thankfully and when the attendant waves me forward, I jog closer in my thrifted heels, praying the cable car is heated. I step inside a moment later and sigh, finding it slightly warmer than the outside temperature—

It’s also occupied. By three men.

“Oh. Nope.” I briefly register that all of them appear to be south of thirty-five, before I turn around with the intention of getting out and waiting for the next empty car, because frankly, I’d rather swim home in a hurricane than have a conversation with strangers. But as soon as I set foot back on the sidewalk, I see Deputy Mayor Alexander turn the corner with his black ball cap pulled down low on his forehead. He’s surrounded by suited individuals, one of whom appears to be communicating via an earpiece. If I wait for the next car, there is every chance I’m going to end up on the same one as these dudes.

And that cannot happen.

If the deputy mayor and his security team register my face, there’s a good chance they’ll recognize me the next time I follow them. In the spirit of anonymity, I reverse into the cable car holding the three men, exhaling in relief when the door closes and the tram begins to move, carrying us upward and toward the East River.

“What changed your mind, love?” one of the men asks, his accent upper crust British. Deep and polished. “Was it my sheer animal magnetism that drew you back in?”

I knock on the window, drawing the attention of the tram attendant. “Too late to swim?” I call to him through the glass. He either doesn’t hear me or isn’t amused by my joke, because he stares back blandly as we pass. “Note to self: bring an inflatable raft next time,” I mutter, taking my phone out of my purse and scrolling through emails, hoping British will take the hint and leave me alone for the duration of this three-minute ride.