She thought of the wounded man in the hall and the way Roman’s eyes had gone flinty when he said families were waiting. “If you don’t mask and he can track your mundane routes, then something else is tipping him. Digital? Money? A person?”
Roman didn’t flinch, but his silence was an answer. “I’m looking,” he said. “We’ll pull logs. Cross phone pings against route changes. Check bank accounts for sudden generosity. I’ll move the next run through three hands no one knows about, and if it gets hit, I’ll know how.”
Lorraine’s skin prickled. She thought of a blonde head half-hidden behind tinted glass, the acid shape of a smile. You were never gone, were you? The suspicion rose like bile: Betsy—her venom, her last text, the way she’d turned her back on them with a flourish and a plane ticket
