I turn my back on Elliott. I stride over to the door. In my preoccupation, I don’t hear the warning signs that I should—the creaking of the elevator floor, the quiet rattling of the padlock’s chain. The scuff of a shoe against metal.

So I’m caught completely off guard when I pull the door open to find the mayor and two cops on the other side.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE PADLOCK IS IN MY HAND. I HAVE HALF A SECOND to decide what to do with it.

The cops—Ginger’s older partner, along with Diaz, who’s covered in mud—are raising their guns. The mayor is stepping forward, palm out, to slam the door all the way open. I backpedal, jerking in shock, then quickly turn that motion into something bigger and more distracting: My left hand flies in front of my face and I shout a warning to Elliott—all while carefully slipping the padlock off its chain and palming it in my right hand.

Diaz inhales sharply, eyes on my face. No, on the injured hand that’s flung up in front of it. I can see her putting together the pieces, realizing why I was screaming in the tunnel earlier. The mayor, though, she doesn’t even look at me. Her gaze scythes over the room and lands on her son.

Elliott’s face freezes. His whole body reacts, reeling back a step, as if his mother’s gaze is a physical force: a blow squarely aimed, unavoidable.

“How did you get back?” the mayor demands, her voice arcing through the room like lightning. She’s not addressing me. She’s not looking at me. Diaz still is, but the mingled shock and pity in her eyes mean—I hope—that she won’t be quick to shoot. I stumble backwards, being sure to keep my right hand behind the angle of my body. I keep going until my shoes scuff against the detritus that’s been knocked off the desk.

“Don’t move,” Diaz orders belatedly.

That’s fine; I’m already where I need to be. I stop moving and let my feelings show on my face, telegraph them all over my body: panic, uncertainty, desperation. It’s not an act. My heart and mind are both racing, combining to make a high thrumming that vibrates through me.

Elliott’s mouth is moving. Nothing is coming out. He looks … broken. Something angry and almost protective rises up in me.

“He came with me,” I say: a reminder to Elliott that he’s not alone, and a reminder to his mother that she gave her own son no choice but to team up with a criminal to survive. My words don’t arc and crackle with electricity like hers did, but they’re something better: a lightning rod.