Samantha’s personal style was changeable. A tousle of the hairdo and one accessory more or less and she’d blend into a school board meeting or an audience with the queen, a get-together in a pub or a church. It wasn’t hard to imagine her charming bikers and politicians alike. Her appeal was sparkle eyed and harmless, and Marcelline enjoyed it, but didn’t buy it for a second.

In the work they’d done together, Samantha was somewhere between an ambassador and a greased skid. She got things done. She erased negotiation and replaced it with introductions and efficient payments and everyone feeling like friends in the end. The last time they’d met had been with the Eastern European heavies who dealt with the Anningers through Owen.

Samantha would have been the next person Marcelline would have called if the Anningers hadn’t wanted the Flinck. As it was now, she seemed like the only person Marcelline could call at all.

So she did.

She’d refolded her makeshift skirt to look a little less obvious and steadied her hands and breath. She’d checked the mirror and wished she hadn’t. At least the bandaged, hollow-eyed wreck that she was in the moment wouldn’t likely remind anyone of any photo the media might have used in the search for her.

Marcelline had fished the stream of passersby and went for a kindly, confused-looking older woman with a flip phone that had to be a decade old. She begged to borrow it. The call went through and Samantha remembered her.

Samantha had done three circuits of Holy shit! in the first moments of that call and never acted shocked about a single thing beyond that.

Once Marcelline described where she was, Samantha told her to get out of sight, directing her, with her keyboard clicking over the line, checking online photos and maps, to a row of trash and recycling containers at the far end of the run of buildings.

“Wait there. Oh, and delete this call from that woman’s phone before you give it back. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of the rest from this end.”

“How—”

“Don’t ask. Hang in there. Sit tight.”

When she was retrieved to Samantha’s office, then fed and medicated, Marcelline’s story, all of her regret and terror, flooded out past any good reason not to. She had no energy left to spare on defense.

“Let me just finish one thing, here,” Samantha said, looking from her keyboard to the screen. Marcelline’s story had wound down to exhausted silence. “Then I’ll take you home with me.”

“Why would you do that?”

“You need rest. Also, because I have an idea. This is interesting.”

Marcelline worked up a weak smile. “I’m not sure I can handle any more things that are interesting.”

“Don’t worry. I can help you.” Samantha looked away from her work. “Do you believe me?”