It takes Perry a second to realize the question was directed his way. “Well, I don’t want to have my head blown off either, thanks.”

“I thought you said you were going to help me protect him?”

Perry’s gaze darts between us. “Well, you know, it seems like you, umm, have this …”

Lars glowers at him before taking the long way to the window. He seals his back to the wall beside it and cranes his head to look out. “I think … it looks like a car is out the front. Blocking the road.”

Considering it’s a reasonably busy street, I’m not surprised that the beeping is getting loud enough to hear.

“Well, that doesn’t sound good,” Perry hisses.

“No fucking shit.” Lars glances around the apartment. “Goddamn penthouses.”

“What’s your sudden problem with the penthouse?”

His face sets into a stormy mask. “We’re on the top floor. If someone followed you and they’re down there, we have no way out.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

PERRY

No way out sounds like a quitter’s attitude to me. Sure, I don’t have a solution to our apparent problem, but if there’s anything my lackluster life of hustle has taught me, it’s that there’s always a way.

“Perry, what kind of car was following you?”

“Like … a black sedan type of thing.”

“Fuck.”

“Let me guess, the car outside is a black sedan type of thing?”

“How did you know?” he asks dryly.

I scramble from the floor back into the bedroom I slept in last night and switch out my hoodie for the T-shirt, then shove my hoodie into my backpack, pull out my face mask, and hurry back into the kitchen, where I fill my backpack to the brim with all the food we bought.

“You’re not actually thinking about your stomach right now, are you?” Lars snaps.

“Where’s my gun?”

He looks like he’s about to argue over giving it to me, but one of those silent conversation thingies takes place between him and St. Clare before Lars disappears into his bedroom and comes back with the damn thing. For all I know, St. Clare was telling him to throw me out the window, but if Lars heard “get Perry his gun,” I’m not about to argue with their weird mind reading.

“Bullets?”

“You’re asking for a whole lot of trust right now,” Lars says. Then he pulls my bullet case from his pocket. I know it’s mine because it has a smiley face with crosses for eyes on the top.

“Thanks.” I load the gun, tuck it into my pants, and shrug my bag back on. “You guys ready?”

“To die?” St. Clare asks dryly, standing out of view of the window. “Don’t think I have much choice.”