“I don’t care about the apartment,” I said, though my hands were starting to shake.

“Clara, they think you helped me.”

“It’s not the apartment I’m worried about,” I said, my voice cracking.

He stepped closer to me, his brow furrowed. “What is it?”

“My mother,” I said.

The name felt heavy in my mouth.

“She’s at the Saint Jude Care Facility on the Upper East Side,” I said.

“She has advanced dementia, Alexander. She can’t leave her bed without assistance.”

“If Marcus wants to find me, he will realize I have nowhere else to go. He will go to her.”

Alexander’s expression hardened.

“We need to get her out of there,” he said.

“How?” I asked. “Every cop in the city is looking for your face, and Marcus’s people are probably already watching my records.”

“We do it quietly,” he said. “We don’t use my name, and we don’t use my money.”

I reached for my backpack on the wooden table, checking the zipper.

The forensic drive was secure inside the inner pocket.

“My sedan is parked three blocks from here,” I said. “It’s registered under my aunt’s name.”