"I've had a lot of practice being scared."
The simple honesty of her words catches me off guard. I want to ask her what she means, what she's been through that's taught her to function through fear. But there's no time.
The elevator opens directly into a garage that houses three vehicles. A sleek sports car, an SUV with blacked-out windows, and a nondescript sedan that I'm guessing is for when she doesn't want to be noticed.
"The sedan," I say. "Keys?"
She pulls them from her pocket and hands them over without question.
"Stay behind me until I clear the area."
I move through the garage carefully, checking for any sign that our visitor upstairs has friends waiting down here. It's clear.
I open the passenger door for her, scanning the area one more time as she slides in. Then I'm behind the wheel, starting the engine with practiced efficiency.
"Seatbelt," I tell her, and she complies immediately.
The garage door opens slowly, too slowly for my liking, but finally we're out, driving down the winding road that leads away from her house, away from the man with the knife, away from the life she's known.
"He was in my house," she says after we've been driving for several minutes. Her voice is remarkably steady, but I can hear the tremor underneath. "While I was packing. He was in my house."
"Yes."
"How did he know you were coming for me?"
That's the million-dollar question, isn't it? How did he know? And more importantly, what else does he know?
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "But we're going to find out."
I take a sharp turn, cutting through a residential neighborhood rather than heading for the main roads. Standard evasion protocols.
"Where are we going now?" she asks.
"Private airfield. Different from the one I arrived at. We're changing the plan."
"Why?"
"Because if he knew I was coming, he might know where we're headed. And I'm not taking that chance."
She falls silent, processing this. Then, "I thought I was going to die this morning."
The simple statement hits me in the chest. This woman has been living with death breathing down her neck for months, never knowing when the watching would end and the action would begin.
"Not while I'm with you," I tell her, and I'm surprised by the fierceness in my own voice. "That's not happening on my watch."
She looks over at me, studying my profile. "You say that like you mean it."
"I don't say things I don't mean."
"Even to scared pop stars who are paying you to protect them?"
"Especially to them." I confirm.
That draws a small smile from her, and it transforms her face. Makes her look younger, softer, more like the woman in the publicity photos and less like the haunted creature I met inside.
"I think I might actually believe you, Finn McKenna."
"Good. Because from now on, your life depends on trusting me completely."
