I rolled with the shove, attempted to smile, but the smile was strained.

“Please don’t show Imogen my videos,” I said. “I’m not ready for her to see them. Not yet. No one knows about them. Not my family, not even Holden.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Wynezra sighed. “Okay. I’m just saying, they’re impressive. And if you want to impress Imogen, well… But hey, whatever, it’s your life. I won’t show Imogen the videos.”

“Thanks, Wynonna.”

Wynezra shifted uncomfortably in the wake of my gratitude. She shrugged it off like an unwanted hand on her shoulder.

“There’s nothing to thank,” she said. “Don’t thank me. It’s so not necessary.”

We drove in silence for a long moment.

“Are you sure you don’t remember anything else about fourth grade?” she said. “Anything about… us?”

“Us?” I said, confused. “Like, me and you?”

The way she had said it, it almost sounded like she remembered something. I certainly remembered nothing. Wynonna was nothing but a fear-filled blur in my fourth-grade memory banks.

“Do you remember anything about us?” I asked.

Wynezra hesitated. Then shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

Maybe I was overanalyzing. But it didn’t sound like nothing.

I relaxed in my seat, as if giving myself permission to disintegrate peacefully. My eyes drifted to my passenger-side mirror.

A black Chevy Malibu trailed behind us, maintaining a distance—biding its time—like a patient predator.

I reeled forward in my seat. “Oh shit.”

“What?” said Wynezra.

“I think I’m being followed.”

“WHAT?” Wynezra leaned forward, squinting into the rearview mirror.

“The black Malibu,” I said. “He was following me yesterday morning.”

“Oh. My. God.” There was dangerous recognition in her eyes. “That bastard.”

“You know him?”

Wynezra leaned back and throttled the steering wheel. “Yeah. I know him.”

I leaned forward and studied the vehicle in my side mirror. It was the same driver: bearded, ball-capped, aviator-ed. The perfect lazy man’s disguise. The moment he realized he had been spotted, he went rigid with panic. Changed course.

Well, he tried. This time, however, there was a Volvo in his blind spot. He started to merge hastily into the right lane, the Volvo whaled on its horn, and he swerved erratically back into his own lane.

“Oh no, you don’t, motherfucker,” said Wynezra.

She spun the steering wheel like Ahab aboard the Pequod, with an utter disregard for human life. Flipped a U-ey. The Subaru tires screamed bloody murder. Suddenly, we were punching it in the opposite direction. The Malibu finally merged and turned right into an empty neighborhood street. Wynezra speared left, hot on his tail.

Er, wait.

Past his tail.

We accelerated past him entirely. Merged in front of him.

Then Wynezra slammed on the brakes.

The Malibu braked, too—but he also attempted to swerve around us. Wynezra swerved wider. We came to a dead halt diagonally across both lanes, blocking him off.