That brick wasn't random, and it damn sure hadn't been meant for Jenna. It had been a warning for Taylor.
She looked down,
then realized she'd crumpled the card into a ball, and now her hand was fisted tightly around it.
Not Reggie. Of course, it hadn't been Reggie.
He'd found her. Somehow, he'd found her.
"Okay, Taylor, I'm sorry, but you're starting to freak me out."
"What? Why?"
"Are you coming down with something?" Jenna reached out and felt Taylor's forehead, and Taylor almost laughed.
"You'll make a good mom."
"And you make a lousy patient." She lifted her hand, signaling for someone behind Taylor to come over.
"What's up?" Mina asked, scooting between the two of them and hooking her arms around their shoulders. She wore her hair in a pixie cut and grinned impishly at both of them before blowing a kiss at Cam.
"I'm sending Taylor home," Jenna said. "She's coming down with something. Can you play stage manager for the night?"
"Oh, like what I do is just a game," Taylor quipped.
Mina stood up straight so she could rub her hands together. "I totally can. I'll just aim the spot at whoever's the hottest, and--"
"Yeah, yeah," Jenna said. "If I let you do that, you'd just keep it aimed over the bar on Cam."
"Not a chance," Mina retorted, as Cam squared his shoulders and buffed his nails on his chest. "I don't want to point him out to the rest of the world any more than necessary. You're mine," she added to Cam.
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
The women laughed. "Good answer," Mina said.
"You sure you don't mind?" Taylor focused her attention on Mina. "I really do feel off today."
"Are you kidding? It'll be fun."
"Thanks." She slid off the stool, leaving a bill for the soda and a tip. "I'm gonna get out of here before it gets crazy busy."
Since it was early August, the sun hadn't set yet, though it was dipping low in the sky behind her, casting long shadows in front as she walked east along Sixth Street toward the parking lot. She kept her eyes on the shadow, only realizing how jumpy she was whenever another shadow encroached, indicating someone moving up fast behind her.
Twice, she whipped around to see who was walking, only to end up startling a man in a business suit, and a tall girl in jeans and a tank top who was bopping along to the sound of her earbuds.
"Chill," she ordered herself, then jumped a mile when the chirp of her cell phone signaled an incoming text. She cursed her nerves again, opened the text, and froze.
It was a picture of herself leaving her apartment, decked out in skinny jeans and a Phantom of the Opera touring company T-shirt, her long brown hair hanging loose around her shoulders on one of the rare days when she hadn't pulled it back. Yesterday.
She stood there, waiting for another text. A message. An emoji. Anything to tell her what this meant. Or to tell her for certain who it came from.
Except she already knew the answer to that question. Didn't she?
And if she was right, she had only two choices: Run. Or get help.
She thought about starting over. About the logistics of finding a safe place to hide. About being alone without her friends. Without a job. With absolutely nothing except her wits. And, of course, her father's money.
A shudder cut through her, and she knew what she had to do.