“Welcome to the noise,” I say.
Cassie leans forward against the seatbelt, staring through the windshield. Her hair is pulled back, but strands of it catch the city lights.
“It’s huge.”
“It’s chaotic. Narrow streets, confusing topography. It’s a nightmare for surveillance grids because the sightlines are broken.”
I keep the minivan in the middle lane. Speed limit exactly. Hands loose on the wheel, though my shoulders are knots of tension.
We passed three state troopers on the turnpike. None of them looked twice at a maroon Odyssey.
Social camouflage. She was right.
But the closer we get to the city, the tighter my chest feels. The invisible net is there. The algorithm is watching. And Cassie … She stands out. That hair. The way she holds herself.
“We need to change,” I say.
“Change, what?”
“Everything. We look like we crawled out of the woods. In the woods, that’s fine. In the lobby of a hotel, it’s a red flag.”
“We’re staying in a hotel?”
“Best place to hide is a crowd. Big convention hotel. Hundreds of guests. Staff who don’t care who you are as long as the credit card clears.”
“We don’t have a credit card.”
“I have cash. And I have methods.”
I take the exit for Center City. The GPS on the minivan’s dash—which I disabled an hour ago—is dark. I navigate by memory.
“There.” I point to a thrift store on South Street. Crowded. Chaotic. No cameras in the window.
I pull into the alley. Kill the engine.
“Here’s the play,” I say, turning to her. “I can’t go in. My tactical profile is too distinct. You go.”
“Me?”
“You’re the dead girl. People see what they expect to see. They expect Cassie Brennan to be in a morgue or a ditch. They don’t expect her to buy hoodies in Philly.”
“Okay.”
“But you have to cover the hair,” I say. “It’s too distinctive. Redheads draw the eye.”
She touches her hair self-consciously. “Right.”
I pull a wad of cash from my pack. “Get clothes. Normal clothes. Jeans. Hoodies. A jacket for me—something bulky. Hats. Sunglasses.”
“Okay.”
“And Cassie?”
She meets my eyes.
“If you see anyone looking at you too long. You drop the clothes, and you walk out the back door. You don’t run. You walk.”
“I know.”
