“That’s kind of you.” Some of the tightness leaves her voice. “Tell her I love her.”
“I will.” Guilt pricks; I keep my tone even. “I’ll text you as soon as I see her.”
“All right.” Softer now. “Thank you, Giovanni.”
We disconnect. I stare at my reflection in the black bezel for a count of three, then set the phone down face down.
Elena doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to. I can feel the question in the air.
“I’ll make it true,” I say, eyes back on the grid of streets. “No matter what. I’ll make it true.”
Elena squeezes my arm once more. “I’m sending food up,” she says, already turning for the door. “I expect you to eat it.” The door clicks behind her, and the study settles back into silence.
I’ll eat once I know Bianca’s safe.
I turn back to the computer and drag the map wider, pull traffic feeds farther out, and start again from the blind spot’s edge. Frame-jog, cross-reference, pull a municipal lens I haven’t tried yet. Nothing, nothing.
Then… a smear of taillights at the fringe of a camera that points two blocks away. I isolate the red, boost contrast, match the plate shroud’s shadow.
There you are.
I pivot to a warehouse district camera with a lazy refresh rate and catch the sedan’s reflection bending across a roll-up door. That gives me the angle; the angle gives me the street. From there it’s a breadcrumb trail: service road, underpass, a side street that looks like it dead-ends but doesn’t.
Food arrives—knock, tray, gone. I don’t look up. I ride the feed two more blocks on a different lens, slow the playback to watch for a turn and a brake.
The sedan disappears from view but doesn’t show up again.
I go back to the cross streets where it disappeared and follow it on a map to a neighborhood.
My gut goes cold. A neighborhood I know very well.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Bianca
Night presses against the glass like a thick fog. The courtyard lights lift soft circles on the paths; the fountain keeps its steady arc. I watch the guards. Thirty-eight seconds along the far hedge. Twenty-two by the fountain. I count them until the numbers repeat in my mind endlessly.
Dinner stayed down. Small mercy. I forced every bite so no one would see me as a problem. If they decide I’m fragile, they’ll tighten the net. I can’t afford that.
I can’t afford to wait, either. Maybe Giovanni’s looking. Maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s already dead because of me. The thought makes my stomach knot again. I breathe through it. No more spirals. A plan.
One whole night and day. That’s how long I’ve been here. And that’s going to be it.
I can’t wait around for someone to discover my condition.
Window first. The catch in the track is small and stubborn. I’ve been testing it on and off all day, careful not to bring too much attention to myself. Now that dinner is over and the tray has been collected, I suspect I’ll be left alone for the rest of the night like last night.
I open the vanity drawer and take one of the amber bottles of lotion. The pump comes off with a slow twist. I rinse the plastic tube inside. It’s thin, straight, and just rigid enough. I wipe it dry with the linen napkin from dinner and go to the window.
Kneel. Breathe. I slide the tube into the gap and feel for the little spring that lives there. I haven’t been able to reach it with my finger, but haven’t wanted to risk more elaborate methods. Tap, tap—nothing.
I change the angle a hair. Pressure. A soft give. The sash inches higher than it did before. Not much. More than before. I test again, find the second catch, press, and gain another inch. Cool air slips over my face. My pulse stutters as a guard passes by under the window.
Rope. I stripped the bed to the mattress and tied the top sheet, flat sheet, and duvet cover together, knotting it at regular intervals.
I have no idea if I’ll be able to do this. I’m not exactly renowned for my upper body strength. But I have to try.
I’m only on the second floor, and there are bushes under me, so hopefully that’ll help too.
