Rose drew her switchblade and crept toward the gap, hogging the metal fence that guarded the steps to the building’s cellar. She heard shoes scuff a hard surface, hushed words, the jangling of keys. Was the asshole stalker chatting with someone on his cell, giving some kind of progress report to whoever had sent him? The idea pissed her off. She squeezed the grip of her knife at her side, with no intention of using it but every intention of making the bastard think she would. She stayed to the right of the sidewalk, watching the shadow fidget ahead. Ready to hug the wall as soon as she got past—

The tip of her blade caught the metal fence. Clink!

She iced up. Melted to nothing. Said screw it to herself and darted out onto the grass in front of the loiterer, all in the space of a single ragged breath.

Pastel green polo shirt, beige trousers, white shoes. It was definitely the same guy who’d followed them through the park—the creepy cyclist her mom had spotted several times at various venues throughout the day. But this time he wasn’t wearing shades, and she now had her first really good look at him.

“You!”

“Aw, damn it. Rosie, you need to—”

“Alex, what the hell are you doing here?” She lowered her blade and, hand on heart, indulged a massive purifying sigh of relief. “Man, you really creeped me out. Don’t do that.”

He had his back to the wall and he looked a little pale. His pockets were hanging out of his trousers. “I’m really sorry, Rosie.”

“So you should be! What’s the big idea, anyway, stalking me all goddamn day? Did Eddie put you up to this?”

He hemmed, nodding to the opposite wall, somewhere behind her to her right. She turned and heard the click of a gun simultaneously. “Oh, shit.”

“That’s right, lady.” The gunman, a goateed Hispanic type in his early thirties, wore a white sleeveless tee and suspenders. He pointed a shiny silver gun at her, horizontally, and stepped out of the shade. “You know this pig?”

She swallowed a mouthful of dry nothing. “Uh, yeah. I do.”

“You’re an undercover pig, too?”

“No. You’ve got it wrong, pal. We’re PIs.” She saw that he had Alex’s wallet in his other hand.

He took a few smoothly menacing steps toward her, head tilted slightly as if it was unconsciously trying to mimic the angle he held his weapon. “Five-Oh, PI…P-I-G! Y’all stink the same to me, bee-atch.” He motioned her to join Alex against the wall, the spread-eagled wallet still in his hand. “Get your pale bony ass over there. And drop the blade.”

She reluctantly obeyed.

“Now,” he said, “Tell me what the hell you know.”