We slid into the leather seats.

It was warm inside, the heater blowing a steady stream of air.

The driver put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“A safehouse in Queens,” Vincent said.

He was looking out the side window, watching the dark buildings roll past.

“It belongs to a friend of mine. A doctor.”

“Dr. Hale?” I asked.

“Yes,” Vincent said. “He keeps a clinic there. It has a secure basement.”

I leaned my head against the cold glass of the window.

I wondered if Paul was watching us right now from some dark doorway.

I wondered if he had already made the call.

The car turned onto the bridge, the cables rising up into the rainy mist like giant ribs.

The city skyline was mostly dark, the tall buildings swallowed by the low clouds.

My phone in my pocket was dead, its battery drained hours ago.

I was glad. I didn’t want to see a message from him.

But part of me was terrified of the silence.

Vincent’s phone buzzed in his pocket.