“The what?” Royal flips his bangs from his eyes with the side of his hand. Fifty years later, and in a landlocked city, the surfer look still rocks.

“The Akashic records are kind of like a psychic Google,” Mel says. “Gigi doesn’t really believe in it.

Rose laughs. “Mel is my interpreter.”

“All the great rinpoches travel with an interpreter,” Mel says.

Rose is finishing her bread bowl of corn chowder, and working on her second glass of wine, when the phone in her tote chimes. Mel nods. She has her cell in her hand.

Rose takes out the phone. Little girl in pink leggings, Mel’s text reads. Curvy lady in orange. Then: Dude with bandaged hand.

Heads down, eyes glued to devices; a family dinner out. Not suspicious.

I thought he’d be bigger, Mel texts.

Rose refuses to rise to the bait.

Looking up and down the street. Not at us, Mel texts.

Rose resists the urge to glance over her shoulder.

Leaving.

A couple of seconds later Eddie, Tania, and Amy walk past Rose’s table toward the parking lot. They don’t spare a glance at the diners.

“Last place he’d look,” Mel says smugly.

“Hide in plain sight,” Rose says.

Having signaled for the check, Rose downs the last of the wine in a single gulp.

“Need a lift?” The man at the table next to them folds down his paper.

“What are you doing here?” Rose demands. It’s her Lyft driver, Brian of the blue eyes and enticing smile.

“Backup,” Brian says, and winks.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Little chipmunk ears. Unmistakable.”

CHAPTER 22

The following morning Royal lets Rose into the basement for a quick shower while Grandma listens to the news at top volume upstairs. When Rose finishes, she finds Mel has bicycled over to the teepee, laden with fresh clothes from Izzy’s closet. Applegarth, they decided, was too dangerous to risk a supply run.

Rose’s taste in clothes falls somewhere between flamboyant and Barnum & Bailey. In Izzy’s fitted slacks and tailored shirts, she feels as if she’s wearing a costume, disguising herself as a real person. It is for the best. Izzy’s excellent taste and conservative fashion bent blend nicely into the Charlotte habitat.

Mel is dressed like a bright middle school girl: skirt, camp shirt, and sandals.

“It isn’t Saturday or anything, is it?” Rose asks, frowning.

“Uncle Daniel called school and told them I was sick,” Mel says. “All I have to do is say I have ‘female problems’ and Uncle Dan can’t get out of the house fast enough.”

“Poor Uncle Daniel,” Rose says.