I take a breath and approach the side of the car. I’m probably making a big deal out of nothing. I can at least see what she wants before jumping to conclusions.

Her lips part like she’s going to speak, but then her eyes slip down to the bag hooked in the crook of my arm. It’s the one I got from T.J. Maxx last summer, which has been surprisingly durable. “That bag is like a sad pit bull at the pound,” she says with no hate or judgment, which actually makes it worse, and it’s not her words but her unapologetic tone that stuns me.

“What?”

She appraises me over thin, rectangular frames. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes don’t blink. “Tay filled me in.”

Of course.

I don’t say anything. She knows I overheard them. That’s why she’s here, but I still can’t tell if she’s on a mission to make a bargain or a threat.

“It’s really none of your business, you know,” she says. Her eyes are hard and inscrutable. Her voice gives away nothing, either, which immediately makes me think she’s the calculating type. Cunning. Strategic. Or maybe that’s just the way she talks, monotone and snide. “You’re not gonna go around running your mouth, are you?”

“No,” I hear myself say, but my voice seems far away.

But she doesn’t believe me. I can tell by the way her lips tighten, the way she shifts forward like she knows she needs to try harder.

It’s only now that I realize my heart is beating faster. I’m nervous. Maybe even scared. I don’t know this girl; I don’t know what she’s capable of. I just know what I heard in that room. She said she knew a guy who could get her something that would kill Simon. She’s obviously got a plug in the city. Who knows what else she’s involved in.

She pushes the back door open and scoots over to the opposite side. “Get in. That bag has to go. We’ll get you a new one.”

She’s wearing a black, backless bodysuit tucked into light-washed jeans, the muscles in her shoulders flexing as she shifts to open the door for me. A Gucci bag is sitting on the empty seat next to her, a half-eaten bag of kale chips on the floor.

I stare at her, befuddled. “You...you want to buy me a bag?”

“You look like a Chanel girl.”

My eyes flutter. “Chanel?”

“You’re not going to talk, right?” she asks, and this time her voice is like a stretched rubber band, the sharpest snap. I almost feel the sting.

I glance at the driver again. He has earphones in and is absentmindedly people watching out his window. He can’t hear a word we’re saying.