Blocks away, she pulled into an all-night grocery parking lot, stopped, and tried to pick up her phone. Her hands trembled so hard that it took three tries to get her fingertip in the fingerprint reader.

As the screen lit, she paused. What should she do? Her fingers hovered over the display of numbers. Over 911.

But Spyros had a person—or more—in the police department. And FBI. The sinking feeling of despair made her eyes burn. She couldn’t turn to law enforcement.

Nonetheless, she needed to warn Quentin’s Fed.

Dennison didn’t answer.

Eff-it-all. In a quavering voice, she left him a voicemail—about Quentin’s death, her attack, informants in the cops and FBI.

She got through it…and then cried, and oh God, crying hurt. Her face burned as tears ran over the cuts and gashes. Each sob hurt her ribs and her stomach, and she couldn’t stop.

A lifetime later, the weeping slowed. Shudders shook her as she wiped off her face. Bloody streaks stained the camisole.

Now what? What could she do for herself?

She was alone. So alone.

The memory of Spyros’s threats made her tremble. Once he healed, he’d come after her. He’d kill her.

She had nowhere to hide. No one to call.

But that wasn’t new. Her chin rose. She’d manage running on her own. Her first client had been a mystery writer who’d had her look up the various ways a fugitive might hide in this modern world.

Research would save her.

Chapter Three

At the railing of the MV Ketchikan, Audrey watched the rocky British Columbia coastline flow past. She tilted her face to the chill wind off the water, hearing the cries of the gulls. Beneath her feet, the deck rolled slightly.

Her first day on the ferry had been spent staring at the horizon and trying to calm her stomach. Her ribs were cracked—or broken. Throwing up would really hurt.

Today, her queasiness had disappeared.

And look at me go. She’d never traveled before, but in the last seven days, she’d crossed most of the continent. Wasn’t it odd how fear could spur a girl to doing new things?

The morning after her attack, she’d pulled on the spare snow clothes and boots she kept in the trunk, cleaned up in a gas station bathroom, and then gone shopping. She’d figured she had a short window of time before Spyros started to hunt for her. After all, he’d need to get his eye treated.

The thought made her stomach turn over.

A department store visit gave her an assortment of wigs and makeup, hats, scarves, and cheap clothes, vanity glasses, sunglasses, and jewelry.