I heard another vehicle on the road and turned to see a garbage truck. I raced to intercept it, hurling myself into the street in front of it. The driver slammed on his brakes, and I threw my hands up and closed my eyes as it stopped right in front of me.

The sanitation worker on the back of the truck hopped off and loped toward me, his yellow vest reflecting the streetlights. “What the fuck?”

“Call the police. I need you to call the police.” I reached out to him, and he slowed, as if worried I might be dangerous.

The driver opened his door. “I could have killed you, lady.”

From a safe distance, the worker squinted at me. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

I held up my open hands. “It’s an emergency. Please, can I use your phone?”

He might have wanted to refuse, but I was already closing the distance between us, reaching out. Surely he could read the desperation on my face. Every second we wasted here was another second Lena could be on her way to Grace.

As the driver switched on his emergency flashers, the other worker dug in his pocket and offered me his phone.

“Thank you, thank you.” I fumbled to dial 911.

The dispatcher asked, “What’s the nature of your emergency?”

“Lena Voss, the fugitive, the killer. She was at the Umana museum.”

“What’s the address?”

I gave it and my name, tripping over my words.

“Spell that for me.” Could I see movement inside the building? Maybe Lena was still here, still hunting.

“Are you injured?”

“No, I mean, it doesn’t matter. If you call the Sugar Land Police Department in Texas or the FBI or my lawyer—”

“Description of the suspect?”

“She’s been on the nightly news.” I was almost screaming. “Dark curly hair, midthirties, tall.”

“Where is she now?” The dispatcher’s calm sounded patronizing. I wasn’t some child who’d seen a bogeyman.

“I don’t know,” I snapped. “She knocked me out. My parents are at the police station in Montclair.”

“Are you in need of medical assistance?”

“Just send the police.” I definitely saw a faint light moving inside the building. A flashlight or maybe a phone? The only thing worse than knowing Lena was lurking somewhere in the world was the realization that she was here, right here. And the only way to pin her down was to play her game. I stopped listening to the dispatcher’s instructions.

Lena had my makeshift weapon, my car keys, and my cell phone.

I hung up and dialed my own number.

And Lena picked up. “Hey, girl, what’s taking you so long?”

“Where are you?”

“Right in front of you, Sleeping Beauty.” The warmth in her voice was a wicked contrast to the coolness of the emergency operator.

In front of me the museum waited, its glass-fronted entrance an impenetrable pool of darkness.