Below the image, a text message appeared.

“You should have stayed at the police station, Elena.”

My phone began to ring.

I stared at the screen as it buzzed against my palm.

The caller ID was blocked.

My thumb hovered over the green icon before I slid it across the glass.

I pressed the phone to my ear, holding my breath.

“Elena,” Derek’s voice said.

He sounded raspy, like he had been drinking or running.

“You think you’re safe in that cheap room?”

My chest tightened, the tight skin of my collarbone pulling against my old burn scars.

“Where are you, Derek?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Close enough to watch you run,” he whispered.

“The police are already looking for you,” I said.

“They don’t care about you,” he scoffed. “And that condo belongs to me.”

“It belongs to my parents,” I said.

“Not anymore,” he said, and the line went dead.

I stared at the black screen for a second.

Then I dialed Marisol.

She picked up on the first ring.

“Marisol, he’s outside,” I said, my voice cracking. “He sent a photo of the hotel.”