“Tell me when they start to move, okay? And if anybody else comes by, I want to know.” I heave my backpack onto a shoulder, stepping to Jade’s side of the counter. “Get ready. When Baxter gives us the all clear, I need you two to move.”

From the other room, an update: “One of the ladies is turning around. Oh wait, now she’s going the other way.”

I gesture for Jade and Beatrix to get off their chairs, then nudge them with the gun until they’re flush against the edge of the dividing wall. One more step and they’ll be standing in the living room, for the ladies and the biker and the big brown truck to see.

“The ladies are crossing the street now,” Baxter announces, “but they’re walking real slow.”

“Are they gone?”

“Almost. Allllmost. Yep, now they’re gone. Everybody’s gone.”

I jam my gun into Jade’s spine and hustle them to the stairs.

C A M

3:41 p.m.

Last I knew, George lived in a brick-front town house, one of the overpriced ones that ballooned like mushrooms around a Whole Foods in a busy northern suburb. I don’t remember the exact address—after Flavio sent George packing, I blocked his number and deleted every trace of him from my phone—but I’ll recognize the place when I see it.

Waze detours me around the perimeter’s bumper-to-bumper traffic and dumps me onto Roswell Road, where I run up against a sea of brake lights in Sandy Springs proper. Nothing but gridlock, wall-to-wall cars in both directions.

My blood pressure, already flirting with the danger zone, spikes into dizzying territory. Especially once the light up ahead flips to green, but not a single tire moves because there’s nowhere for any of us to go. How the hell do people live in this town?

I stew in the gridlock, while George’s last words play on repeat in my mind, hurled over his shoulder on his way out the door.

You’ll pay for this, asshole. When you least expect it, I’m going to make you pay.