I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror while navigating through afternoon traffic. The white van stayed three cars back. Professional distance. Not too close, not too far.
Amateur hour was clearly over.
Harlow was still holding my hand across the center console, completely absorbed in showing me photos on her phone of some costume she'd been working on. Something about LED strips and power sources. I heard approximately every third word because my brain had shifted into survival mode.
The kind of survival mode you develop when you're twelve and walking home through Kensington after dark. When you learn which streets to avoid. Which sounds mean run. Which shadows move wrong.
Three years of commuting through Penn Station at midnight had taught me more about staying safe than any self-defense class could. Rule one: if you think someone's following you, they probably are. Rule two: never lead them to where you actually live.
