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“I just assumed he was the one who took the picture this morning and was returning to the scene of the crime.”
“The picture from this morning’s a grainy piece of crap. Carter’s a pro, with the best camera money can buy. No way did he take that picture.”
“Then how’d he know where to find us?”
“The same way everyone else will know where to find us. He saw the name of a restaurant or store in the background, looked up the address online, and then made a beeline to 63rdStreet. And if he could find us with the click of a mouse—”
She gasped, and it was clear that she was beginning to realize the true gravity of our situation.
“If he could find us,” she said, “so can anyone else.”
CHAPTER 27
Clara
“Exactly,” Ian said.
Fuck me. Just when I thought the worst was over. “So you think there could be others on the way?”
“I don’t think it,” he said. “I know it.”
“But won’t they get held up by the traffic?”
“Not if they walk or bus or parachute in,” he said. “Carter works for a network. That’s why he arrived in the unmarked van. But amateurs can do just as much damage as a professional. More, even. I don’t have a restraining order against anyone but Carter. Which means anyone with a camera phone can climb up on the hood of the car and start taking pictures.”
“Isn’t that illegal?” I said. “Trespassing on private property or intimidation or something?”
“You think they care about that?” he said.
“Shit.” I had never realized how lucky I was to have a starring role onLifestyles of the Broke and Obscure. I’d only been the subject of tabloid scrutiny for one hour and already my life was in shambles. How did celebrities stand it? And how much worse must it be for someone like Ian? Movie stars and politicians actively sought public attention. Ian’s apparent celebrity status was uninvited and unwanted. It was becoming clearer to me why he lived in isolation at the end of a mile-long driveway, worked alone from home, and had tinted windows on his car. He wasn’t a hermit because he wanted to be. He was a hermit because he had to be.
“When did your first text come in?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“Less than an hour ago, I think.”
“Yeah, mine, too,” he said. “So that means that the picture probably hit the internet two hours ago at most. Which means it’s just about time for the swarm to make landfall.”
He was trying to maintain a calm demeanor. But if we were playing poker right now, I’d be wiping the floor with him. He was breathing in visibly deep breaths. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. And his paranoid eyes were glued to the side mirror, desperately searching for oncoming paparazzi.
He was in panic mode, and it was contagious. I wasn’t as quick on my feet as my street-savvy mother, but I did know that my only hope of getting out of this mess with my life intact was to stay hidden from the cameras.
So I did what I always did in a crisis: channeled Mom.
“If I can get to the right lane, I can turn onto 66th,” I said, tensely gripping the wheel. “From there it’ll just be a matter of getting to I-87.”
I realized that what I was suggesting was easier said than done. The traffic was more than bumper-to-bumper. It was door-to-door. Park Avenue looked like a goddamned impound lot. I was no more in control of the situation than Ian was.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” Ian said even though his nervous tone indicated he didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. “We just need to remain calm and not do anything to draw attention to ourselves. There!” he cried out, pointing.
“What?”
“An opening!” he said with the enthusiasm of a little boy who had just spotted a roadside carnival. “In front of the red car to the right!”
Ahead of us was a little red Porsche with an enormous black dog in its sliver of a back seat. There was about a half a car length of space between it and the car in front of it. It was just enough room for me to nose the Santa Fe into.
But there was one very, very big problem.
“I can’t do it,” I said.
