One of the men was holding a crowbar.

I stared at the screen.

The heavy metal crowbar wedged into the old wooden doorframe of my building.

“Lucia,” I whispered.

My throat felt dry, like dry sand.

“She isn’t at the apartment, Elena,” Dominic said, his hand coming down over mine.

His palm was hot, but his fingers were shaking.

“She is at the bookstore with Mrs. Gable,” I said.

My voice sounded small in the quiet cabin of the car.

On the screen, the wood of my front door splintered.

The woman with the clipboard did not look away.

She simply checked a box on her paper.

“They are checking both locations simultaneously,” Marco said, his eyes scanning the rear-view mirror.

He swung the steering wheel to the right, cutting across two lanes of traffic.

Tires shrieked behind us.

A horn blared, distant and angry.

“We have five minutes before they realize she isn’t at the flat,” Dominic said.

He pulled his own phone from his jacket.

His thumb hovered over the glass.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

“My mother’s personal attorney,” he said.