She didn’t argue. She didn’t have to. Marco shifted on the sofa. “Does anyone have a plan that doesn’t involve me bleeding out or you getting shot in the face?”
Jade rolled her head back, eyes closed. “If we’re waiting, we need to get ahead of him. Who knows Toronto? Who could’ve made us?”
I exhaled. “I can make a call.”
“Not on our phones,” Jade said. “Not if this guy’s tracking them.”
I shrugged. “Then we find a payphone. Or steal a phone from a bar.”
Marco gave a weak thumbs-up, then turned his face to the wall.
Marco’s sleep came in jagged fits, punctuated by teeth-grinding and the muted hum of city traffic outside the window. Now and then he’d choke out a half-dreamed question—something about Dad, or the Yankees, or whether or not they’d be home by Christmas. Dante swore a little and fielded each one withthe same flat answers. When it got really bad, he pressed the heel of his hand to Marco’s sternum and counted out loud, just like they’d done as kids when Marco’s asthma hit. It didn’t help much, but it was something to do.
Dawn squeezed through the blinds in a weak yellow filament. The linoleum in the kitchen was sticky beneath Dante’s bare feet, and the air stank of old takeout. Jade sat on the battered couch, arms folded, knees pressed together. She’d been up for hours, watching the fizzing TV with the sound off. Neither of them felt like talking.
By noon, Marco was awake—sort of—scrabbling for the Gatorade on the coffee table while untangling himself from the blanket. He blinked around the room, face gray to match the winter sun outside.
“You look like a Halloween costume,” Jade said, not getting up.
He grinned, baring teeth stained pink by antibiotics. “Still better than whatever’s growing in your womb.”
Jade’s mouth ticked up. Almost a smile. “Wouldn’t bet on it.”
Dante pulled on a shirt, stretching the fabric over the bruises that still mapped his torso. “We need food. I’ll go.”
“Safe to do that?” Jade flicked an eyebrow without turning. “I mean, unless you want to get made by the entire noon crowd.”
He bit back the retort. “I can handle it,” he said. “I won’t be gone long.”
Downstairs, the snow had turned slushy and brown at the curbs. The usual sidewalk refugees—smokers, dog-walkers, two guys sharing a pastry from a paper bag—roamed Queen Street. Dante ducked inside the bakery next to the pharmacy, let the sugary heat blast him for a second, then joined the line.
Every muscle in his body expected trouble. He checked each face, measured the Harry Potter scarves and purple beanies for weapons or wires. The doorbell chimed twice, three times. Old lady, hipster, soccer mom. Safe. Safe. He scanned the mirrored glass, tracking angles.
At the register, the clerk barely looked up as she bagged his pastries. “Cash or card?”
He laid down a crumpled ten, eyes flicking to the alley behind the counter. A man in a neon vest was fixing something near the dumpsters, but he didn’t even look up. Dante slid the bag off the counter and left without waiting for change.
He cut down the alley, boots slurping in the half-melted snow, and hooked back toward the safe house. Nothing. Not even the whiff of a tail.
Dante cut behind the Thai place, skirting the garbage cans, and ran his pulse out on the sharp edge of the wind. On the stoop of the safe house, he scanned the street again—a couple of figures loitering, but nothing that pinged his radar. He shouldered through the door, groceries in one hand, and clicked the lock before leaning against it. The muscles in his jaw wouldn’t unclench.
The smell hit him first: sour coffee, tile cleaner, old sweat. Marco was up, wearing a blanket like a toga, bare feet on the stickylinoleum. He was prodding a half-dead potted fern Dante didn’t remember seeing before last night. There was a bruise blooming down the side of his neck, ugly and purple. Marco’s eyes tracked Dante as he dumped the pastries on the counter.
“You get us any smokes?” Marco asked.
Dante grunted, tore into a muffin, and shook his head. “Not wasting cash on that shit,” he said through a mouthful.
“You’re turning into Mom,” Marco said. He stuffed his hands into the blanket, made a show of shivering, then dropped into a chair and tugged the fern closer to his face. “This thing’s got fungus. You see that?” He sounded almost delighted by the rot.
Dante ignored him. Jade was in the corner, hunched over the laptop they’d boosted from a pawn shop, hair tied up, hoodie scrunched around her face. He could see her typing, see the code and browser tabs and whatever other digital scrap she was hoarding for the next move. He wanted to ask if she’d slept. He wanted to wrap both Marco and Jade in a felt-lined box and label it “Not for Breaking.”
Instead he peeled the lid off a styrofoam container, fingered a wedge of bread, and watched the clock.
It was a quarter to three. The call would come soon.
Jade stopped typing, straightened her back, and rotated her shoulders like she was about to bench-press the world. She blinked at the sunlight pooling across the table. She didn’t look at him. The silence stretched.
"You want to be the one to pick up?" he said.
