He’d been born with some talent for manipulation and had dedicated years of thought and testing to grooming his edge. But the second most important thing was knowing when it was all getting away from you. He had a sense for that, too. A knack for self-preservation beyond the basic animal toolset.

In his earlier calls with Owen, there had been hotel and garage sounds. Only two hotels with parking decks were close by, and Owen had been in the first one. His car wasn’t hard to spot. Jonathan had tailed Owen to his meetup with Marcelline.

There, he’d tried the simplest thing he could think of—to set things back the way they’d been, to have the painting and reclaim the meeting with Owen. From there, it should have fallen the expected way. He would get paid and get gone, just as he’d practiced in his mind’s eye.

Going all the way to hands-on with Marcelline tipped this into a brand-new landscape. He’d felt the difference, the new requirements, in his bones. Then he smashed her facedown onto the steering wheel.

The car had cracked something on her wild, sparking stunt ride out of the shopping center. It held out longer than he would have guessed. He watched it fight its injuries, hobbling down the road at an impressive clip for all the struggle. He imagined Marcelline wrestling physics behind the wheel. But after a few miles, the wobble disappeared in a snap and a hard pull to the right. The chase was over.

He was behind her on the shoulder and out at a fast walk in seconds. She was frantic, grabbing at the clasp on her purse. He tried to look as helpful as possible from the outside. He opened the door and put her under control before she could get clear of her seat.

He’d guided her, dragged her, dazed and wavering, into the back footwells of his own car. Both feet into this strange new territory, he was committed. There weren’t going to be any do-overs.

He grabbed up her handbag, which had fallen onto the pavement, so no one would stop for it. He held tight against the instinct to rush. It would draw attention. A mild hurry would have to do, and it would probably keep him from falling over his own feet besides.

But the plan, such as it ever was, ended at the bumper of Marcelline’s car. Jonathan checked the back seat. Empty. He glanced back. Marcelline still hadn’t risen over the window line of his car. He popped the trunk latch. Thank God it was there. He scooped up the blanket and garment bag, but it sagged—all fabric, no brace of wood—in his grasp. The tuxedo was the only thing under the zipper.

From there, everything else had been a developing exit strategy.