In heavier traffic, only a mile from Jase’s apartment, she slowed and switched lanes, all the while hoping he would drive closer, maybe even drive alongside her so she could get a glimpse of his face. No such luck. With the sun slanting against his dirty windshield, she could only make out dark glasses and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

Sweat beaded on her upper lip as she wound her way through afternoon traffic to Jase’s neighborhood. She had to do something. Now. After a quick maneuver onto Jase’s street, she found a place to tuck the car. She pulled into the space near a fire hydrant in the shade of a live oak with Spanish moss waving from its limbs. Quickly, she climbed out of her Honda and hid behind the tree, where she could take a video of the van driving by. She knew the driver might flee if he got wind of what she was doing. Even worse, he might try to confront her, but then there would be plenty of witnesses on this busy street. Plenty of passersby that she could turn to for help. She’d be fine.

Either way, she had him.

The van pulled onto the street and headed in her direction, then slowed when the driver didn’t immediately spy her Honda.

She was already filming from her iPhone, but catching the numbers of his grimy license plate wasn’t as easy as she’d thought it would be. When she’d finally gotten the footage, she focused the camera’s eye on the driver, but because of the angle of the sun, its rays bouncing off the glass, she couldn’t see who he was.

Until the van stopped in the middle of the street, blocking her Honda from exiting its illegal spot. Then he looked at her full-on and she recognized the man in dark glasses, scrubby beard, and hard expression.

Milo Tillman.

What the hell? Milo was stalking her? Why?

“Hey!” she called. “What’re you doing, following me?”

The passenger side window was already rolled down, and he motioned for her to come closer.

She did. “I told you I would meet with you later.”

“It couldn’t wait.”

“What can’t? You said you wanted to talk about your twin.”

“I have to,” he said, and he sounded desperate. “I . . . it’s bad.” A car pulled up behind his van, and the driver honked impatiently. “It’s about—” He glanced in the mirror as the car behind him, a silvery BMW, sped into the oncoming lane.

“Hey, buddy!” The driver, a thirtyish guy with spiky hair, yelled, “Drive, asshole! You’re clogging up the whole street!”

Brianna wasn’t interested in the other driver. “I know,” she said, forcing Milo’s attention back to her. “It’s about your twin.”

“Yeah, I really need to talk,” he admitted. “Finally. I’m ready. I need to talk to somebody about Myra.”