"I don't see any sign that anyone has been here, but take a quick look yourself. You'd know if anything is out of place or missing."
"Missing? They're thieves now, not just killers?"
"No," he says, sounding nearly amused. "Not to my knowledge."
I do my own quick assessment and come to the same conclusion. "Everything is as it should be."
Jakob goes into my kitchen, spotting my drying mat cluttered with upturned coffee mugs and juice glasses. He grabs a glass and fills it from the faucet, gulping it down in two swallows before refilling it and drinking again, this time more slowly. "I find it hard to believe we lost them that easily," he says. "I've been running from them for…" he shakes his head. "Halfway across Manhattan, let’s just say that."
"I have an idea," I say. "How about I get in bed and go to sleep, andyougo away and take your killers with you? This has nothing to do with me."
"I wish it were that simple, Brys, truly I do." He goes to the window and peers out without putting his body in front of it.
"But they saw me for, like, six seconds. What are they going to do, Jakob? Sit down with a sketch artist?"
"Or CCTV footage," he says. "Those four men were hired to find and kill me. They're just the stooges. The one who hired them has world-class computer techs on his payroll, the kind of people who can ID you based on a single still from grainy CCTV footage from an ATM across the street, feed that image into an algorithm, and track your movements across the city."
"That's Hollywood bullshit. Fictional computer magic." I really, really want this to be true.
"Unfortunately, it's not. It takes longer than they make it seem on TV, but it's definitely real. And I guarantee you that there's some nerd clacking away at a keyboard somewhere, tracking our journey across Manhattan to this address. Or, more likely, IDing you, pulling up your address from public records, and sending a team here."
"Why me?" I ask, more out of petulance than anything else.
"Pure bad luck, Brys, and that's pretty much it. I ran into you, they saw me with you, and now you're in the crosshairs."
"Whosecrosshairs, though?" I snap. "Who wants to kill you? And why? And who areyou, for that matter?"
"I'll explain…well, maybe not everything, but some of it. For now, though, we have to keep moving. Which means you need to change into practical clothes, and fast." He eyes me. "Do you, in fact, have anything so prosaic as jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt?"
I huff an annoyed but amused laugh. "Yes, Jakob, I do."
He shrugs. “You never know. I've known quite a few women who wouldn't be caught dead in denim."
"So, seeing as this is my first time running for my life from murderous cretins, should I pack a bag, or…?"
He arches his eyebrow. "No. You should not pack a bag. You should leave your cell phone here. You should grab as much cash as you have available. No ID, no wallet, no phone, no purse. No lotion, no hand sanitizer, no lipstick. Just you, comfortable, practical clothes, and sturdy, sensible shoes in which you can run if need be. If I were you, I'd do something with your hair. Braid it. Put in a bun, tie it back, put on a hat, something. Because as gorgeous as your hair is down, it's gonna be a problem loose like that."
I do my dead-level best to ignore the way the word “gorgeous” makes my heart pitter-patter. ”You've got a lot of experience running for your life from murderous cretins, do you? With innocent women in tow, especially?"
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just go change, Brys. You can be witty and sarcastic at me later."
"Fine. Just…stay here and make sure the murderous cretins don't walk in on me naked." I glare at him. “You either, mister."
He holds up both hands, palms out in surrender. "Of course not."
I head into my room. The first thing I do is sit on the closed toilet lid and use a wet washcloth to scrub my blackened feet clean. Remove makeup. Braid my hair.
The thing I didn't say to Jakob is that his comment about not being caught dead wasn't all that far from the truth; I was just too embarrassed to admit it. Ihavejeans and sneakers; I just… well, to be perfectly honest, I have in fact said out loud that I wouldn't be caught dead wearing jeans in public. Desperate times and all, though, right?
I peel out of my slinky little dress and the barely-there undergarments required by such a revealing garment.
At the exact moment in which I stand facing my closed but not locked bedroom door, buck-ass naked, the door slams open inward, revealing a wired and intense-looking Jakob. "They'rehere!" He stops in his tracks, mouth ajar, eyes wide. "Shit. Um. Apologies. But get dressed as fast as humanly possible."
Another instant passes, in which he blatantly stares at me before ripping his gaze away from me and lurching out of my room. The whole thing occurred in under ten seconds, and I haven't even had a chance to be pissed off.
I step into plain black granny panties and a sports bra, my best—and only—pair of jeans, and a pair of ungodly expensive hiking boots my idiot brother gave me for Christmas one year, even though the closest to hiking I've ever come in my life is cutting across the grassy part of Central Park. Which I did in a pair of Jimmy Choos. Fortunately, he managed to get them in the right size, so at least there's that.
I spend a precious moment waffling between my favorite comfort hoodie—a men's XXL Rangers pullover that belonged to Charles—and my leather biker jacket. I opt for the leather, mainly because some possibly misinformed voice in my head says it will provide some sort of protection against…something. I'm not entirely sure what.
