"I wasn't going to." Barely audible.
"Give it to me."
Her attention snaps to mine. Fear flickers. Not of me, but of what comes next. "Knox—"
"If it's on, he can find you." I hold out my hand. "Give me the phone, Sloane."
She looks down at it. Her thumb hovers over the power button. Then she places it in my palm. It buzzes one more time before going silent.
I flip it over, pop the back panel, and pull the battery. The SIM card comes out next. Small, innocuous, lethal. I drop it on the floor and bring my boot heel down hard. The crack is satisfying.Sloane flinches anyway. I sweep the pieces into the trash and turn to her.
"He was calling," she whispers.
"I know."
"He never calls unless—" She cuts herself off.
"Unless what?"
"Unless he's already found me."
Ice slides down my spine.
"He hasn't found you," I say. "Not yet. But if that phone was on, it was pinging towers. He could triangulate your location within a few hours."
Her hands tremble. "How do you know?"
"Because it's what I would do."
She wraps her arms around herself again, smaller than before. I grab my burner from my bag and flip it open. Should have wiped it after the Whitcomb job. That protocol died in a parking lot.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Checking if we left a trail."
I pull up a browser, fingers moving fast. Local news sites first. Then Chicago outlets. Then I see it. My jaw tightens.
"Knox?" Small. Afraid. "What is it?"
I turn the screen toward her. Prominent Chicago Physician Seeks Missing Daughter. The article is short. Sanitized. Carefully worded.
Dr. Harrison Mercer is seeking the public's assistance in locating his daughter, Sloane Mercer, 26, who disappeared from the family's Chicago residence two days ago. Dr. Mercer reports his daughter has "fallen in with concerning influences" and may be in danger. The prominent physician, known for his philanthropic work and connections throughout the city, has offered a substantial reward for information leading to her safereturn. Anyone with information is urged to contact Chicago Police or the Mercer family directly.
Sloane reads it once. Twice. The color leaves her face.
"Concerning influences," she whispers.
"He's painting you as a victim," I say. "And me as the threat."
Her hands curl into fists. "He's mobilizing."
"Yeah." I close the burner and set it aside. "Public appeal means private hunters. He's throwing money and connections at this. Every cop, PI, and opportunist with a phone will be looking for you."
"How long do I have?"
"Before someone gets lucky?" I rake my fingers through my hair. "A week. Maybe less if he's smart about it."
She sinks onto the edge of the bed, spine curved, fingers tight in her sweater.
