It worked perfectly. Jeremy texted back within minutes:

i’ll be there!

“Easy,” she’d said, showing Trevor the phone. “We even got an exclamation mark. Fish on a fucking hook.”

Trevor got to the Mews at sundown. It was raining and Claudia was right—that was a good thing. Nobody would be lingering, smoking a cigarette or having a conversation in weather like this. They’d be focused on getting where they were going. He pulled up his hoodie and walked one side of the street, then the other. He saw only three other people, all scurrying under umbrellas or bent beneath shoulders and a hat or hood, just like him. He made up a little story in his head in case he ran into anyone he knew, or if someone asked what he was doing. He’d gesture to the duffle under his shoulder and say, Got sent on a prop run! See ya later! The duffle was unzipped just enough for the bat to poke through. Trevor wanted to keep a hold on it; he didn’t want to fumble when he saw Jeremy.