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“Shower.”
    “Still in the same place it was last time.” He kept his eyes on the canvas. “Hey, kid.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Take your time. Water bill’s paid.”
    I didn’t say anything; I didn’t need to. Vincent knew all about sink baths in gas stations, washing up in fast-food restaurants. Thirty minutes later, smelling like soap and not street, I wrapped a towel around me and went into the room he kept for me. Vincent was already there, riffling through the closet.
    “Still want to be a boy?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Rapper clothes again?”
    “For now, but I need a second boy outfit.”
    He jerked from his position. “What happened?”
    “Nothing. Time to change identities.”
    Vincent cussed long and hard. “What happened?”
    “A soldier with the Vëllazëri thinks I saw something go down.”
    That got another string of cusses. “You’re not going anywhere tonight!”
    “Oh, okay.” I let sarcasm ooze over my fear. “I should stay here with a convicted art forger who’s still on probation and subject to surprise inspections.”
    He tossed me jeans and a shirt and focused on my long hair. “I got a blond wig you can use.”
    “With my skin color? I’ll stand out.”
    “Exactly. Hide in plain sight.” He rose, his arthritis making his movements slow and pained. “Dress.”
    He left. I scanned the pile of clothes—stuff for girls and guys. After tossing a layer of rap guy on my body, I put a chick outfit in the bag and followed that with a second dude outfit. When I came out, Vincent jerked his thumb at the easel. “It looks good.”
    “It looks perfect.”
    “Usual payment?”
    I nodded. “Offshore.” That was the nice thing about having a felon for a friend—he knew how to hide my money.
    “Don’t know why you don’t take a cut of the profits. Get off the street.”
    “And miss out on all the glamor?”
    He scowled.
    I shrugged. We both knew why I was on the street. I couldn’t do it—live in a comfortable house with money and clothes while my family rotted in their graves, cursed by the lies she’d told.
    “Here.” He handed me food. Then he gave me a plastic container of pasta. “Consider it a bonus.”
    “I’ll see you later.”
    “How long?”
    “Not as long as last time.”
    “Promise?”
    “Yeah.” I went to the door and wished him a good night.
    He snorted, then folded his arms across his chest and watched me as I started down the hallway to the exit. Four steps later, the sixth sense that had kept me alive for the past two years went on high alert.
    Crap.
    What was on the other side of the door? No way could it be the guy who had been chasing me. I’d made sure he was gone before I’d set out for Vincent’s. I turned the knob, slow and steady, then opened the door to the stairwell and walked into my nightmare.

FIVE
    Meena Sharma.
    Through the window in the stairwell, I saw her step out of her sedan.
    Calm.
    Confident.
    Stone-cold killer.
    Spinning, I took two giant steps, slammed through the doorway out of the stairwell and into the hallway, passed Vincent, still standing outside his door, and headed for the back exit.
    “Hey! Kid—what’s going on?”
    No time for talk. It was all about survival.
    I crashed through the rear door and skidded to a stop. A couple of cops coming up the stairs. My heart slammed against my ribs. I rushed back to Vincent’s apartment, pushed him inside and closed the door behind me. “Told you that you’d see me again soon.”
    “What’s going on?”
    “Meena.”
    One word was all it took. His face went slack, white. He cursed, low and vicious.
    Rage made me see two of him, made the world blur at the same time it sharpened every edge. I didn’t want to hide from the one who’d slaughtered my family. I wanted the fight, wanted to slam my fist into her round face and come away with her blood on my knuckles. But not now. Not here, when cops and guns came with her. Not when she could shoot me down and lie to the world.
    “She may