I was done.

Shaking, I got hold of Mia. I had to run, and I had to run fast.

She didn't ask, just said, "I'll set it up."

My phone screen lit up on the desk.

An anonymous text.

I opened it.

The image was blurry, but I could still make out myself: drugged, staggering out of the Meridian suite, my back to the camera.

Camille had pulled that night's surveillance from the Fontaine archives, restored it, and was using it to blackmail me.

Quinn, don't even think about taking Grayson from me.

The second he saw a clean version, it was over.

He'd be sick to look at me, and he'd throw me in the East River himself.

Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets.

Eleven-thirty at night. I heard Mia arguing with the guard outside my door.

She smashed a vase to pull the hallway security off.

I shoved the window open, and the rain instantly soaked me through.

I slid down the drainpipe on the second floor. My palm tore open on the metal, blood smearing along it.

The second my feet hit the ground, there was a crash from above. My door had been kicked in.

"Quinn!"

His roar tore through the rain.

I didn't look back. I just ran.

Rain stabbed into my eyes, and I couldn't keep them open.

Behind me, he was screaming my name like a man losing his mind.

I cleared the gate and threw myself into a taxi parked at the curb.

"Drive."

The car cut through the rain.

I leaned back against the seat, shaking from the cold and the fear.

The clinic was tucked deep in an alley in one of the city's roughest neighborhoods, with moss climbing the walls and the air thick with disinfectant and damp rot.

This doctor owed the Morettis his life. He usually patched up the wounds that couldn't see daylight. Tonight, he was going to help me.

The surgical lamp clicked on.

I lay down on the table.

"Wait."

I raised a hand to stop him.

"Take this out first."

I pointed at the inside of my left wrist, where a small scar marked the chip the Morettis had implanted when I was eight, the day Grayson brought me home.

A family tracker.

Every Moretti carried one. Even me, the orphan girl they'd taken in.

Local anesthetic went into my skin. My wrist went numb, and then came a brief sharp pain.

The doctor set the chip on the tray. It was smaller than a grain of rice, and the metal hit the porcelain with a soft chime.

Nobody could find me anymore.

---

At the same moment, the Meridian Hotel, top floor.

The tech screen lit up.

"Grayson. We've got the Meridian footage."

Ryan's voice came through the phone, trembling slightly.

"Whole hallway, that night."

Grayson set his glass down.

The image was gray and grainy.

A figure staggered out of the suite, turned, and ran down the hallway.

Half a profile was all he got, but it was enough.

He knew her.

From the day she'd walked into the Moretti house at eight years old, he'd known her face from every angle.

"Grayson?"

Ryan called from the other end.

He didn't answer.

Another notification buzzed through. It was the family tracking system, and Quinn's chip signal had just gone dark somewhere in the south of the city.

His phone hit the desk.

"Get the car."

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