"I know. But it seems someone did in your name, and now they think you're trying to run away with the stolen money—potentially leave the country. They marked you as a flight risk."

"But I—" My mouth hangs open in shock. “What should I do?"

"Grab a cab and go to Brooklyn. Raf's friends live in a secure warehouse there. I'll try to get you a new identity as soon as possible. I'm so sorry."

"I don't understand," I whisper slowly, hopelessly.

"I know. But we don't have time, Lulu. If they arrest you, it's game over. You know that."

"I'll put on my shoes and leave."

After I hang up, I put on my shoes and hurry out. But just as I reach the door, the intercom rings, and I see Detective Reynolds on the screen.

Damn.

The front desk must have recognized me and told them which apartment I was in.

Wow, they were fast.

Following Noelle's instructions, I go out the back exit of the apartment block, but as I round the corner, I see more than a few police cars waiting around. And since that's the only route available, there's simply no way for me to walk right by them—not with my cast being such a recognizable feature.

Police cars swarm around the apartment building.

Noelle is right. If they arrest me, it's game over.

The Archibalds will concoct whatever accusations necessary to take me out of the equation so they can inherit all the money. Add in some xenophobia and disdain for immigrants, and it wouldn't take much for them to convince everyone that I was nothing but a gold digger looking to get rich and get a green card—all the while taking advantage of a poor man who suffered from mental illness. I can already see the story they'll spin.

And the worst thing? It's persuasive enough.

Pursing my lips, I take a few steps back to avoid being heard. And as I find a sturdy metal bar at the base of the building, I use all the strength I can muster and hit my left arm against it. The sound echoes, and the first hit doesn't do much except give me a jolt of pain. But it's a life and death situation, and that means I must push through the pain.

I hit again.

And again.

On the third hit, the plaster cracks. Hope soars in my chest. I take a deep breath and will myself to hit harder.

The cracks widen, small fissures spreading all over the cast. Another two attempts and parts of the plaster fall to the ground. I quickly peel all the pieces off my arm, noting the purple color of my skin.

There is pain, but there is also numbness.

I focus on the numbness.