I jab at the number nineteen randomly, and we ride the elevator the whole way down. When it comes to a stop, Lars and I make sure the coast is clear, and then the two of them leave.

“Back alley?” Lars checks.

I quickly nod before the doors shut me out of view, and then I turn to hit the first floor. Before my finger can make contact though, I pause. I was obviously followed here. Me. They might suspect St. Clare is with me, but they can’t know that for sure, and they definitely wouldn’t know about Lars.

Then I think of sweet Walter and the pictures of his grandkids he was showing me before I left this morning, and before I can press the fancy number one, I redirect, and my finger jabs at the G button instead.

I try not to fucking cry or change my mind as I drop like a stone toward people who very likely want me dead.

At the very least, it will give St. Clare and Lars a head start and stop them from scaring Walter.

Margot would fucking kill me.

I push her from my mind as the elevator slows and pulls to a stop. Then I duck beside the bank of buttons and wait as the doors slide open.

Silence.

Creepy silence.

Very creepy silence inside that’s blasted open only by the constant horns outside. I scan the portion of the lobby I can see, and when it still comes up deserted, I inch further out.

The loud bang echoes in my ears as a bullet flies right by my face, close enough to feel the heat before it lodges into the wall of the elevator.

I scream and duck back as someone shouts, “Wait! It’s the other one.”

The other one?

“We know you’re there, Perry!”

Ah. Great. We’re already acquainted.

The doors go to close, and I quickly reach around to wave them open again. “I think I’m changing my name,” I inform whoever it is. “There’s no Perry here. Just a … Brock.” Brock is good. Manly. Strong. The type of guy who won’t take a bullet to the head without avenging himself.

“Whatever the fuck your name is, you’ll want to see this.”

I’m about to ask what this is when the voice that comes next gives me chills.

“Don’t listen to them. Get out of here.”

Margot.

I choke on my next breath, brain short-circuiting.

All I can focus on is no, no, no, no this isn’t happening, and wild theories jump out at me like maybe they have her voice recorded or some shit.

“Yeah, listen to your sister,” the man says. “Get out of here. Her and her girlfriend would make pretty corpses.”

The thought of that rolls my stomach. “What do you want?”

“Where’s your mark? He’s here, isn’t he?”

“Define here,” I try weakly. “Exactly.”