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“Come with me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Ella—”

“You helped us.” I open the driver’s door but keep my body turned toward her. “If the rest of them figure it out, they won’t let you stay alive.”

Hazel’s laugh is barely a sound. “They’ve barely let me stay alive as it is.”

“Then don’t make it easier for them to finish.”

She looks away.

I step closer. “Hazel, you were kind to me when no one else was. You helped me dress for the gala. You’re an angel. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” she whispers.

“No,” I say. “I’m not asking because I think I owe you something. I’m asking because I care. I want you to be safe.”

I jerk when I hear a door shutting. Or opening.

Hazel turns toward it.

I don’t wait. “Get in.”

She hesitates only a second.

Then she hurries around the back of the Range Rover and climbs into the passenger seat.

I slide behind the wheel, start the engine, and force myself to breathe.

Every second feels like a hand closing around my throat.

The outside air is black and cold. The driveway beyond is empty, curling away from the garage toward the lower service road.

I drive.

At first, I go slow because Nathaniel told me to use discretion, and discreet means to do nothing that draws attention. The tires roll over the concrete and then gravel, and then the narrow stretch leading away from the main house.

Hazel twists in her seat to look back.

“Don’t,” I say.

She faces forward again.

Neither of us speaks.

The lower road curves away from the estate. I follow the route Nathaniel described, hands tight on the wheel, repeating the coordinates in my mind.

I press harder on the accelerator. A little too hard. I know it as soon as the engine responds.

I ease up but not enough.

Blue lights flash behind us.

Then the siren.