She breaks first. “You have people.”
“Yes.”
“That’s who you were talking to.”
“Yes.”
Her fingers touch her pendant again, then stop like she remembers my warning.
I clock the movement anyway. That charm is a problem. Maybe not the only problem, but it’s one I can touch.
“Don’t,” I say again.
She inhales. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” I keep my voice flat. Not harsh. Just true. “It’s a habit. Habits get tracked.”
Silence stretches.
Then she says, carefully, “What do you think it is?”
“A beacon,” I answer.
Her breath catches in a way that isn’t theatrical. It’s the sound of a brain snapping two pieces of reality together.
“That’s… insane.”
“Most people think that right before they disappear.”
She stares at the dashboard like it might offer her a softer world.
I take the next turn, a gentle curve uphill, and my gaze lifts to the rearview mirror again.
A silver hatchback has been behind us since the last light.
Maybe coincidence.
Maybe not.
I don’t react. I don’t lean forward. I don’t speed up.
I let it be.
I’ve seen men die because they couldn’t tolerate uncertainty.
“Lena,” I say quietly. “Plate check on the hatchback. Three cars back.”
A pause.
“Working.”
Lark’s voice is low now. “You can do that?”
I don’t answer. Because the answer isn’t reassuring.
We can do a lot of things.
So can the people hunting her.
