And then, at last, the thread brushing her fingers, a twitch against her palm.

Syd gasped, and blinked, and the mouse was whole, was alive, was scurrying out of her hands and across the desk.

She lunged and caught the small rodent, setting it on the fire escape and closing the window before it could follow her back in. She turned toward the hall, excited to tell Victor and Mitch about the feat, small as it was.

But halfway there, Syd slowed, stopped, held back by something in Mitch’s voice.

“. . . is it really necessary?”

“It’s a calculation,” answered Victor coldly. There was a pause. The sound of ice shifting in a glass. “You think I enjoy killing people?”

“No . . . I don’t know . . . I think sometimes you make the easiest choice instead of the right one.”

A low, derisive snort. “If you’re still hung up on what happened with Serena . . .”

Sydney’s breath caught on the name. A name no one had uttered in almost three years.

“There could have been another way,” said Mitch.

“There wasn’t,” growled Victor, “and you know it, even if you want to pretend you don’t.”

Sydney pressed her hand over her mouth.

“Make me the villain of that night, Mitch. Wash your hands of any blame. But don’t act like Serena Clarke was merely a victim or even a casualty of circumstance. She was an enemy, a weapon, and killing her wasn’t just smart, or easy—it was right.”

Victor’s steps sounded on the hardwood as he came down the hall.

Syd scrambled back into her room. She went to the window and threw it open, stepping out onto the fire escape. She leaned her elbows on the metal rail, tried to pretend she was looking dreamily out at the city instead of making fists so tight her fingers ached.

But Victor didn’t even slow down as he passed Sydney’s door.

She sank to her knees when he was gone, bowing her head against the bars.

A memory washed over her, of that night. Of Serena’s voice in her ear, telling her not to run, of the way Sydney’s mind had gone smooth, her limbs soft under the order. Of the cold parking garage, and the gun against her head. Of the long pause, and then her sister’s order—to go.

To find somewhere safe. Some where, which had once been some- one.

Victor.

But Victor—

Some part of her had known.

Had to have known.

Sydney felt like she was going to scream. Instead, she left. Took the fire escape two stairs at a time, didn’t even care about the way her steps rattled as she crashed down floor after floor.

She hit the street and kept going.

One block, three blocks, five—Sydney didn’t know where she was going, only that she couldn’t turn around. Couldn’t look Victor in the eyes.

She drew her cell from her back pocket and dialed June. They’d been texting for almost a year, exchanging small notes, anecdotes about where they were, what they were doing, but Syd had never called.