Syd got up and wandered out of her room, found Mitch at the table twisting a pair of wires and fitting them into a small black box. Sydney was always amazed that such big hands could do such precise work.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Mitch smiled. “Just a precaution,” he said, holding up the device.

She realized she’d seen it before, or something like it, spotted them in the corners of doorways wherever she and Mitch and Victor played house.

“Have you heard from him?”

Mitch nodded. “This morning,” he said. “And as soon as he gets back, we’re leaving.”

Sydney’s chest tightened. She couldn’t leave Merit. Not yet. Not before she tried—

She ducked back into her room and got dressed, pulled on the boots and the bomber jacket, and then went to the dresser, where she’d hidden the small red tin. She tucked the box deep in her pocket and started out into the apartment and toward the front door.

“Come on, Dol,” she called.

The dog drew up his lazy head.

“Syd,” said Mitch. “We need to stay inside.”

“And he needs a walk,” protested Sydney.

Dol, for his part, didn’t seem excited.

“I took him out earlier on the rooftop,” said Mitch. “The building’s gardener won’t be happy, but it’ll have to do. I’m sorry, kiddo. I don’t like being cooped up either, but it isn’t safe—”

Sydney shook her head. “If EON knew where we were, they would have already come for us.”

Mitch sighed. “Maybe. But I’m not willing to take the chance.”

There was a steadiness to his words, a stern resolve. Sydney chewed her lip, considering. Mitch had never prevented her from leaving before, not physically. She wondered if he would.

She didn’t want to make him do that. She sighed, shrugging out of her coat.

“Fine.”

Mitch relaxed, visibly relieved. “All right. I’ll start lunch. You hungry?”

Syd smiled. “Always,” she said. “I’m going to take a shower first.”

Mitch was already in the kitchen, turning on the stove, as she slipped down the hall, tugging the coat back on. She went straight past the bathroom and into Mitch’s bedroom, sliding the window open as Dol padded into the room behind her.

“Stay,” she whispered.

The dog opened his mouth, as if to bark, but his tongue simply lolled.

“Good boy,” she said, swinging her leg over the sill. “Keep Mitch safe.”

Syd was about to climb down the fire escape, but then she hesitated, digging out the playing card she always kept with her—the one Victor had plucked from the fallen deck so long ago, and then slipped like a secret into her palm.

The king of spades.

It was battered now, edges worn from five years of back pockets, a rough crease along the middle.

In their game, a face card meant freedom.