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heating vent above the trophy case. And he has a pretty blond woman by the throat, a gun to her head.
    It’s Christina’s mom. The agent inclines his head at the camera, and Mrs. Scolina stares up at us with a terrified, pleading expression. The agent smiles. And then he speaks, the movements of his mouth exaggerated. I can almost hear his voice in my head as he says, “It’s time to come home, Tate. We’ll be waiting at your girlfriend’s place. You have until eight p.m.”

FOUR
    I MANAGE TO CATCH CHRISTINA IN MY ARMS WITHOUT taking my eyes from the screen. As she cries, the screen goes dark. Then it begins to play again, on a loop, the whole thing unraveling before our eyes, letting us relive the horror.
    Leo’s voice cracks as he curses. “That’s her mom, isn’t it? It’s her mom.”
    I lock eyes with him as I hold Christina against my chest. And I nod. This is my fault. All my fault. I bow my head and whisper into her hair. “They won’t hurt her. I’ll give myself up. We’ll figure this out.”
    Christina only sobs harder. My fingers burrow in her hair, and I wish I could draw the fear and the sorrow out of her head and carry it for her. My own eyes are stinging as she shudders against me. “They said we have until eight, which gives us thirteen hours. It takes about twelve to drive to New York. We have to get out of here.” I glance at Leo, who’s staring down at the Steno notebook where my dad wrote “Race: ‘Sicarii’” and “Find it in 20204.” I snatch the notebook out of his reach and flip it shut. “Can you make it back to Chicago by yourself?”
    â€œI’m going with you.”
    â€œI can’t take care of you, too.”
    Leo stands up straight, his eyes at the level of my chin, all skinny and defiant. He reminds me of me in a way, not yet realizing how small he is, and maybe stronger than he looks. “I can help you guys. You’re not the only one with skills.”
    â€œBallistics?” I ask.
    He nods. “And self-defense. Chemistry, too. Strategy.”
    â€œAnd tactics,” we say together. Because my dad taught him. All those trips to Chicago, and some of that time away from home was spent on this kid. I shouldn’t feel jealous. But I do.
    Maybe he senses it. “Uncle Angus and Uncle George taught me a lot, too,” he offers.
    â€œThe moment you get in my way, I’m putting you on a bus back to Chicago. Do you understand me?”
    He shoves his hands into his pockets and bobs his head. His jaw is tense—he’s clenching his teeth. Determined to prove himself. Fine. I’ll let him. “We need cash. Where do you think my dad would have kept it?”
    He smiles. “Maybe in the underground garage out behind this shack?”
    My mouth drops open. “What?”
    â€œYou didn’t notice it when you came in?”
    I muscle down the urge to flip him off. “Let’s go see what he left me, then.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    He left me a lot. As I explore the underground garage, Leo sits with Christina on the grass at the top of the ramp. Through the open doors, I hear snatches of their conversation, enough to know that the kid is actually trying to distract her, telling her some story about a time he made a red cabbage pH indicator for a chemistry experiment and ended up accidentally dyeing both his hands red. When I hear her let out a raspy chuckle, I’m amazed. And, okay, a bit grateful. It makes it easier to focus, knowing she’s all right for the moment.
    Until I hear shots fired, which sends my blood pressure so high that my vision spots. My heart in my throat, I scramble up the ramp and realize Leo’s moved on to teaching Christina how to handle a gun. She looks angry and determined as she squeezes the trigger. He’s not only made her laugh, he’s given her something to focus on, something that