The bathroom is empty.
No Tallulah.
No elf hat.
Just a smear on the floor near the sink where someone’s shoe scuffed. The color is red, like Tallulah’s elf shoes.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
I hit my radio.
“Jack,” I say. “She’s not in the bathroom.”
Static answers.
Then: “Say again?”
“Tallulah’s not fucking here,” I repeat, already moving.
There’s only one other door in this back hall—the employee exit that leads to the alley behind the store.
It’s supposed to be locked from the inside.
The handle gives when I grab it. Not much. Just enough.
I slam it open, and cold air knifes into my lungs.
The alley is narrow and heavily shaded by the buildings rising up on either side. There’s a dumpster to the right, a stack of pallets to the left, a strip of asphalt leading to the street beyond.
At the far end, framed for an instant in the spill of sunlight, I see them.
A man in a dark jacket.
And Twig, limp in his arms, her head hanging, striped tights bright against the gray.
Time compresses.
He looks back once, just enough for me to catch the angle of his face.
Henry Thurston.
We lock eyes across the distance.
He smiles. It’s small. Infuriatingly calm.
He shifts his hold on her, like he’s adjusting a bag, and jogs toward the street.
“Stop!” I roar.
He doesn’t stop.
I draw.
My gun’s in my hand before my brain catches up. Training, muscle memory, every worst-case scenario I’ve ever rehearsed.
I sight down the barrel.
I have a shot. I havetwoshots.
