"So let me make sure I understand." Shawna kept her voice even. "You asked me to break you out of prison and steal money to pay off your debt — so that I could keep stealing money for you after."
"No, no — that's not—" Clay caught himself. He could hear how it had landed and quickly adjusted his face into something more plaintive, less raw. "Darling, listen. I didn't expect the police to move that fast. I didn't expect them to take the money. If we had any cash right now, we could go anywhere, we could be free — but we're broke and we're wanted, and I'm not threatening you, I would never threaten you—"
He watched her face.
He saw the conflict there and felt the familiar shift of odds in his favor. He pressed it.
"Even if you don't think about us, think about tonight. We're wanted, Shawna. The apartment isn't safe anymore. We can't use your name, we can't use mine. If we don't have money, we have nowhere to sleep and nothing to eat. That's just the reality."
That part, at least, was true. Being wanted narrowed the available options considerably, and "nowhere to stay and nothing to eat" was not a rhetorical exaggeration.
Shawna looked at him for a long moment.
"One more time, Clay."
"Of course." His relief was almost physical. "One more time. After this, I will never forget what you've done for me — never."
She took out the binoculars. They moved through the city in a series of blinks — a dozen jumps, rooftop to rooftop, street to street — until they came to rest near a residential building in a part of the city that didn't attract much attention. Old construction, working-class foot traffic, nothing that would make a passing eye linger.
Clay looked at it and immediately looked at Shawna.
"Here? There's nothing to take here."
"I know exactly what's here." She raised one finger. "Be quiet and follow me."
She trained the binoculars on a window two floors up. The curtains were open. The room inside was tidy and empty — the owner out.
The city blinked, and they were inside.
Clay turned in a slow circle, taking inventory. Simple furniture. No safe. No obvious valuables. The room had the clean, careful look of someone who kept what little they had in good order.
"I don't see anything," he said. "Shawna, this is a waste of—"
"Help me move the bed."
He opened his mouth, closed it, and crossed the room. Together they pulled the bedframe aside, and Clay grabbed the board underneath and yanked it up.
It hit the floor with a heavy crack.
Beneath it, in the space hollowed out under the slats, stacks of ten-dollar bills sat in tight, orderly rows.
Clay stared at it. Then the grin came.
"Who hides money like this?" He was already reaching for the nylon bag, already packing it, talking while he worked. "This person is unbelievable. Why not just use a bank?"
"You're welcome to ask him about it sometime." Shawna stood near the door.
The bag was full before he finished complaining about it. He could barely lift it, but he wasn't leaving any of it. He never was.
"Let's go — the owner could be back any minute—"
"The owner is still setting up his stall." Shawna picked up a set of keys from beside the door. "We have time."
"How do you know that?"
She didn't answer. He didn't actually want to know. Money in hand, questions became a low priority for Clay Parker.
They came out on the street below and found a car parked at the curb. Clay slung the bag into the back seat, settled in, feet immediately going up on the dashboard with the ease of someone who had just accomplished something.
"You can hotwire it, right? Or do you want me to—"
Shawna put a key in the ignition. The car started on the first turn.
Clay stared at the key. Then at her. "That's the owner's car."
"Yes."
"How do you know so much about this specific person?"
"He's the friend I mentioned before," she said. "The one I told you about. We have a good relationship."
Clay processed this and arrived somewhere that satisfied him. "Well." He smiled. "Then I'm sure he wouldn't mind lending a friend his money and his car."
Shawna didn't answer. She didn't bother to decide whether he was being deliberately obtuse or whether it was just his default setting. It didn't particularly matter anymore.
"Clay." She glanced down. "Take the wheel for a second — my shoelace is coming undone."
"Yeah, yeah, go ahead."
She bent down. He reached over with one hand, easy and relaxed, the bag of money between his feet.
Ten minutes later, the car entered a tunnel.
The headlights cut out without warning.
"Great timing," Clay muttered, peering into the sudden dark. "Luckily it's a straight shot through, otherwise we'd be in real trouble."
The tunnel was black around them, the road visible only in the dim reflected glow from the far end.
"Clay." Shawna's voice was conversational. "You said you'd never forget what I've done for you. So if I ever got caught — would you risk your life to save me?"
He laughed a little. Comfortable. "What kind of question is that? Of course I would. Without question."
"You would."
"Absolutely."
A beat.
"Do you think I believe that?"
The sirens came from the far end of the tunnel before he could answer — blue and red strobing through the dark, a loudspeaker voice filling the concrete space.
"Central City Police Department! Driver, kill the engine. Get out of the vehicle and lie flat on the ground. Now."
Clay sat bolt upright. His hand found the money bag. "Shawna — go, take me and go, right now—"
"Clay." She sounded almost gentle. "Think about it."
He thought about it.
The tunnel was completely dark. There was nothing to see but the police lights at the far end.
"My ability requires a line of sight," she said. "I can only go somewhere I can see clearly." She looked at the blackness around them, the dead headlights, the ceiling they couldn't make out. "There's nowhere to go."
The police lights strobed.
"We can't escape," she said. "Not from here."
Her voice gave nothing away.