The phone rang, and rang, and rang.

But no one answered.

Sydney’s steps slowed, the initial wave of shock settling into something heavier. She looked around. She was on a narrow street, not an alley exactly, but not a main road, either. People said cities didn’t sleep, but they did get quiet. And dark.

Turn around, said a voice in her head, but it sounded like Victor, so Sydney kept going.

Which was a mistake.

The thing about mistakes was that they weren’t always big, or obvious. Sometimes they were simple. Small. The decision to keep walking. The turn left instead of right. Those few extra steps in the wrong direction.

Sydney was trying to call June again when she saw them—two men.

One wearing a black leather jacket, the other with a kerchief slung around his throat.

She stopped walking, caught between turning around, which would mean putting her back to the men up ahead, or continuing forward, which would mean passing within arm’s reach. They hadn’t noticed her, at first, or at least they’d pretended not to, but now they looked at her and smiled.

The men didn’t look dangerous, not like in the movies Syd watched with Mitch, but she knew that meant nothing—everyone who’d ever hurt her had looked safe. And the longer she stayed put, the more she felt the badness wafting off them like cheap cologne. Something she could smell and taste.

“Hey, little girl,” said one, moving toward her. “You lost?”

“No,” said Sydney. “And I’m not a little girl.”

“Different time we’re living in,” said the second. “They grow up so fast.”

Syd didn’t know how they’d gotten so close to her, so quickly, but as she shuffled backward, turned to go, a hand caught her collar. The guy in the leather jacket wrenched her back against him, one arm wrapped around her shoulders. “Aw, now, don’t be rude.”

“Get off me,” she snarled, but he was squeezing too hard, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She felt something hard dig into her ribs, realized it was a gun. She twisted in his grip, trying to grab it.

“Careful,” said the other one, closing in. “She’s got spirit.”

Syd tried to kick out at the other guy but he jumped back, wagging his finger. Her fingers skimmed the gun, but she couldn’t quite get it.

The first man’s breath was hot and sour on her cheek. “Come on, now, let’s have some fun.”

Syd slammed her head back into his nose—or tried, but her head only came to his chin. Still, she hit bone, heard the crack of a tooth, and she was free, stumbling to her hands and knees as the man reeled, the gun tumbling from his waistband. Syd lunged for it, fingers closing around the grip right before one of the men grabbed her ankle and pulled.

The street bit into her elbows and scraped her shin as she twisted around and raised the gun, barrel leveled at the man’s heart. “Let go,”