Madison exploded through the doorway, slamming into Nancy, knocking her backward into the wall. Nancy’s phone flew from her hands, and Madison scooped it up as she ran, ending Wallace’s call. She hoped whatever he heard didn’t bring him running. But it probably would. She had to get out of here. She sprinted through the courtroom out to the public hallway. At the elevator, she jammed the button over and over. But it couldn’t come fast enough. She was hearing footsteps. Nancy? A security guard? Run. Turning for the stairs, she bolted down, half sliding, breath rasping in her throat. On the floor below, she forced herself to slow down. There were cameras everywhere in this building. Running like a maniac would achieve nothing but alerting the security guards that she ought to be stopped. Every cell of her body cried out to run, but she forced herself to walk all the way to the lobby, where she waved her intern ID at the guard on duty and exited through the employee door.
When she hit the frigid night air, she realized she’d left her coat draped carelessly over Judge Conroy’s desk chair, proof of her break-in. Idiot. Looking over her shoulder to see if Nancy was behind her, she stepped into the street. Brakes screeched. A driver leaned on his horn. No Nancy, but she’d almost been hit by a car. Heart jackhammering, she ran across the street toward the bus that waited at the curb, reaching the door just in time. It didn’t matter where it was going, as long as it was away from here, before Nancy brought Wallace down on her head.
Wallace. And Nancy? Was that really a surprise? She should have expected the two of them to be in league. Walking unsteadily toward the back of the moving bus, Madison clutched the manila envelope in one hand. Madison herself might be fair game, but they were following her mother. The photos were an abomination. She’d intentionally confiscated them. Nancy’s phone she’d swiped by instinct on the spur of the moment, to cut off the call before Nancy put Wallace on Madison’s tail. She pulled it out, wondering what to do with it now. A text had come in about five minutes earlier, its first line visible on the home screen.
What happened? Call me back. I need Kathy’s …
Kathy’s what? It was from Wallace. She swiped at the screen and got a prompt to enter Nancy’s passcode. Maybe she could draw him into a conversation. She tried some obvious ones. 1234. 0000. A couple of possible birth years for Nancy. Nothing worked, and she gave up.
There was nobody sitting near her. She pulled out her own phone to call her mother, who answered on the first ring, despite the hour.
“You’re up late, Mom. You need your rest.”
“You know I can’t sleep. Any word on Danny?”
“Not yet.” She hunched over the phone even though no one was near her. “Mom, I need you to listen carefully. I haven’t been telling you everything because I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Oh, God. What happened? Is he—”
“It’s not about him. You know how I’ve been trying to get close to the judge in his case to get information? I found out she’s involved with the dirty cop. I don’t know if he’s her boyfriend, or what. But he’s following us.”
“The cop?”
“Yes.”
“Following—who?”
“Mostly me. But you, too. He went to your work. He took a photo of you. I found it, and on the back of it, he wrote your home address.”
“My God, that’s what Danny said. Remember? The guys who beat him up had my address. You think that’s connected?”
“I do. I’m worried for your safety.”
“Oh, no, honey. Worry about yourself, your brother. Not me.”
“We can relax about Danny. I’m a hundred percent sure he’s in protective custody, where nobody can hurt him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The judge told me. The danger now is to you and me, from Wallace. He knows I’m snooping. He wants to stop me. And he might take it out on you. I think you should leave town. Go to Aunt Nilda’s for a few days.”
Even as she said it, Madison knew her mother would never agree.
“Leave? When your brother’s still missing? When this cabrón is following you? No way. I’m staying here to help.”
“How does it help me if something happens to you?”
She looked up to see that the bus was pulling into South Station. From there, she could catch a bus to Revere, to Mom’s apartment. She would drag her out kicking and screaming if she had to, rather than risk Wallace coming for her.
“Oh. I’m at South Station. I’m coming to you now, you hear me?” Madison said.
“Coming to the apartment?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there in an hour at the latest. Mom, you don’t open your door for anyone but me. Understand?”
“Okay. Be safe.”
She dropped the call and ran toward the Chelsea bus, only to see it pulling away. To add insult to injury, it had started to rain, a frigid downpour that hit the icy ground, making walking treacherous. Tucking the envelope under her sweater to protect it, she scanned the street. Passengers, Uber drivers, people walking by. At least she wasn’t alone. A dark, late-model sedan pulled up at an odd angle, wedging nose-first into a parking spot that was too small for it. She backed up, eyes glued to it as the passenger door flew open. It was Wallace.
He hadn’t seen her yet. But how the hell did he find her so fast?
Nancy’s phone. He must’ve tracked it.
She turned and ran into the bus station, dumping the phone in the first trash can she passed. The echoing lobby was mostly deserted, no crowd in which to take cover. She sprinted for the escalator, running up the treads two at a time, and dashed blindly into a newsstand. Peering out from behind a rack of books, she saw a shock of rust-colored hair floating up the escalator. Him, coming toward the newsstand, eyes lifted, looking at the back wall of the store. She glanced over her shoulder. The wall was mirrored to catch shoplifters. He had a perfect view of Madison crouching behind the rack. Shit. She was an incompetent criminal. Every decision she made tonight was wrong. She had a split second to choose—stay, or run? The only other person in the store was the cashier, an older woman in a hairnet who looked exhausted and beaten down. She’d be no help against a cop.
Madison bolted. He wasn’t expecting that. She slipped by him, reaching the escalator before he realized what was happening. But the split-second advantage instantly dissipated. She could hear and feel his feet pounding the metal treads as he raced down behind her. She made it to the concourse. The crowd was sparse, but every one of them turned to look. Her instincts might be terrible. But she knew one thing in her gut. He was capable of killing her to shut her up.
In the time it took to see the flash of red from the corner of her eye, he tackled her. She was on the filthy floor, cheek in the muck, the breath knocked from her, arms twisted above her head, crying out in pain. His clothes smelled like cigarettes. There was only one thing to do. Scream bloody murder.
“Help! Help me! He’s kidnapping me! Help!”
He tried to get his hand over her mouth. She bit down. He grunted and twisted her arm behind her back.
“Help! Call the police!”
“I am the police,” he said, holding her down with one hand, flashing his badge with the other.
Most people averted their eyes or backed away. But a few came closer. And one starting filming with his phone.
“He’s lying. He’s kidnapping me. Call the police, I’m begging you,” she said to that man.
“I am the police. This woman is a heroin dealer.”
He got to his feet and yanked her up. She looked directly into the camera.
“That’s a lie. My name is Madison Rivera. I’m a law student at Harvard. He’s a dirty cop. He—”
Wallace slapped the man’s phone to the ground and stamped on it, cracking the screen.
“What the hell! Fuck you, cop.”
“No, fuck you,” he said, pulling his gun on the guy.
The man backed away, raising his hands in the air. Wallace slapped handcuffs on her. The ratcheting sound as they closed echoed in her skull. He dragged her outside to his car, shoving her against it, kicking her feet apart, and patted her down, plucking out her phone, her ID, subway card and debit card, and the manila envelope of surveillance photographs she’d hidden under her clothes.
He paused when he found that.
“This? This is what you were looking for? Where’s the phone?”
She nodded toward her own phone, which he had in his hand.
“Not yours. Nancy’s. What did you do with it?”
She shouldn’t admit to having the phone. That was actually a crime, and this was a police interrogation, by a dirty cop. Anything she said, he would not only use against her, he’d twist it, lie about it. He hadn’t read her her Miranda rights, but he’d lie about that, too. She clamped her mouth shut, determined not to make it easy for him.