We’re about a half block away from the entrance of Nate’s building and huddled up under the awning of a yoga studio with a sign in front that promises sixty-minute classes by the best ganja instructor in the city. We recap the plan, and our run-through is punctuated by simultaneous nods. It’s solid. We’re good to go.

“Wait. Did you bring it?” I ask her, eyeing her mini handbag, which looks small enough for Barbie, not large enough to carry the one prop we need to pull this off—the most integral part of our plan.

She stops. “Shit, I left it at the studio,” she says, dramatically slapping her palm to her forehead in a way that matches the sarcasm in her tone.

I let out a breath. The stakes are too high for mistakes and slip-ups. I was just double-crossing our T’s.

Rolling her eyes, Mei dips her hand into the pocket of her oversize gray hoodie that she’s wearing over a pair of black stirrup pants and a ridiculous red tutu, and now the mini bag makes sense. It’s been so long since I’ve worn anything with pockets, I’ve forgotten how convenient they are. She pulls out the vial, holding it so only I can see it. I instinctively clench the muscles in my lower abdomen toward my spine. The deep red liquid looks like actual blood even though I know it’s not. She snuck into the costume room at the theater she’s dancing at last night and stole some of the stage blood they’re using for one of the contemporary ballet performances that involves murder.

I check the time again. It’s only been a couple of minutes. I need to chill.

“Okay,” I say, flicking a glance toward the entrance of Nate’s building. “You ready?”

Mei makes a face. She is fearless. She’s also a professional performer, so her confidence seeps into me as I break away and make my way inside the lobby.

It goes even more flawlessly than I could have imagined. As soon as the doorman lifts his head from the Grisham novel in his hands at my frantic announcement that there’s a girl bleeding outside, he springs into action, because he is an idiot.