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I catch a glimpse of black cuts moving through the crowd.

Hyde’s men.

They’re close.

Good.

This can work.

That is the lie I tell myself as I move farther down the access path, just enough to keep Razor focused on me while the men behind him close the distance.

Trees close around the lane.

Festival noise fades.

My fingers wrap around the palette knife in my pocket.

A ridiculous weapon.

Still mine.

Something I chose.

Gravel crunches behind me.

I spin.

Nothing.

My pulse hammers.

“Razor?”

Saying his name feels stupid.

No answer.

I start backing toward the festival.

My phone buzzes.

Keep coming.

“No.”

I say it aloud this time.

Strong.

Clear.

My answer.

I turn to go back.

A black-gloved hand flashes from between two parked delivery trucks.

I jerk away before it catches me.