We continue down the block, our silence stark in comparison to the chattering groups we pass. I’m thinking, strategizing, trying to figure out the safest way out of the city. I’ve been taking public transit, but every station has security cameras. Misha—and whoever the Italians employ to hack on their behalf—could be pulling footage from anywhere.
The safest, quickest way to get out of the city is to steal a car.
I glance at Carina, not sure how she’ll react to theft. Her eyes are focused straight ahead as her backpack thumps her back in time with each step. She’s not wearing any makeup, and her hair is pulled up in a simple ponytail. A sudden vision of her sitting across from me in her university’s library appears, circumspect and academic. When I spied on her that day, I thought it would be the last time I ever saw her. That it would be the last time I ever sought out a woman.
I spot a Volkswagen sedan parked ahead. In good condition, but not new. Unremarkable and reliable.
I reach out and grab Carina’s hand, tugging her to a halt. Her head swivels right when I thread her fingers between mine, wide eyes meeting mine. She looked less stunned when I yanked her off the street.
“We’re taking that car,” I tell her quietly, nodding to the vehicle ahead.
She glances at the sedan, then back at me. “Taking—you mean stealing?”
I smile at her scandalized tone. “What do you think paid for your private schools?”
Without waiting for a reply, I drop her hand and stride toward the car. I break the window with a quick jab of my elbow, the model dated enough that there are no glass sensors. I unlockthe door, watching Carina round the fender out of the corner of my eye. I’m not accustomed to being so aware of someone else. She’s not trained or armed; she’s relying on me to remain in control of this situation. A cluster of unfamiliar emotions coalesces in my chest that I quickly shove away. They won’t help me handle this.
I slide into the driver’s seat and expose the wires to spark the engine, trying to focus on the task and also observe my surroundings. Two guys down the street are looking this way. One pulls a phone out of his pocket and raises it to his ear. Heat sneaks down my spine, an uncomfortable pressure settling in my stomach. I haven’t done this since I was a teenager, and back then was simply to prove that I could.
Finally, the engine turns over. I lean back in the seat, shifting into Drive and pulling out of the spot in an efficient maneuver. Even if someone took down the plate, we’ll have a solid head start. I weave through traffic, mentally plotting the fastest route out of Paris.
“Where are we going?”
“I told you.”
“‘Somewhere safe’ is not an address.”
“Why did you run?” I ask again, following the signs for A6.
She’s not the only one with questions. And the sooner I get answers, the sooner I can decide what to do next.
“I don’t see how my family is any of your business,” she says stiffly.
I attempt to exhale some annoyance. “I am trying to help, Carina.”
“Are you? Or do you just feel guilty about ghosting me?”
My fingers tighten on the wheel. “I did not ghost you.”
“No? I guess I missed the goodbye.”
I have to release another measured exhale. “I was trying?—”
My phone begins buzzing. I grab it so I can see the screen. Misha.
“Say nothing,” I state, then answer, tucking the phone between my shoulder and cheek as I continue to drive toward Fontainebleau. “Anything new?” I ask, switching to Russian.
Misha’s sigh is frustrated, answering for him. “Not really. I dug into her life in Chicago, in case there was someone she might be in contact with there, and nothing. A condo owned by a Carina Carson sold three days ago. She was a member of the symphony, and they received a resignation letter two weeks ago. She never had any social media. I’ve hacked her email, but nothing of interest there.” He hesitates, then adds, “I think Igor is losing interest.”
“Anything from Andrea?”
“Nothing. Either he can’t communicate or there are no updates. Caruso still has men combing Paris—they haven’t found her either.”
I eye Carina, who’s staring out the window, absently playing with a necklace she’s wearing. It’s new; I’ve never seen her wear it before.
Misha updates me on a few other matters, and then we hang up.
As soon as I drop the phone, she asks, “Who was that?” When I don’t reply, she adds, “You didn’t mention me.”
