I hadn’t run in months. My lungs burned, the morning air like glass in my throat. I hailed a cab on the avenue and threw a crumpled hundred-dollar bill I’d stolen from Grant’s dresser at the driver.

“Trattoria Rossi. Fast.”

I sat in the darkest booth at the back of the empty Italian restaurant, hands shaking so violently I had to hide them under the table. Ten minutes. Fifteen.

Just as panic began to rise, the bell above the door chimed. Lucas walked in, tired, his eyes darting around the room. He saw me and froze. He knew who I was.

He slid into the booth opposite me, rigid. “Evelyn? What the hell is this? Grant said you were—”

“Crazy?” I interrupted, my voice raspier than I remembered. “Catatonic? Suicidal?”