Jaelle was still standing in the camera room when the car pulled up. Even in the grainy, thumbnail image in the screen’s corner she could tell it was sleek, but after four years of navigating this world, she still couldn’t tell the cars apart other than ‘big’ or ‘small’ or ‘truck.’ Two men stepped out in black suits and sunglasses—not much different from Mal’s “The Authorities” disguise. They just looked like more law enforcement to her, but Mal must have sensed something because his mental shout was enough to rattle her intangible teeth.

Jaelle raced back to the front, taking in the sight of the female gas station owner reaching down for something behind the desk and Mrs. Peterson stepping closer to her husband. They wouldn’t have long before the men entered, but they didn’t seem to be in a hurry. One pointed at the parked cars, and they exchanged a few words.

Mal’s fixation on Sherlock Holmes aside, Jaelle [i]had[/i] seen enough Law and Order to know that, in a situation like this, you were supposed to protect the witnesses. 

She made herself visible, wearing her own image, but altered slightly, her Roma garb replaced by a copy of one of Eleanor’s blouse-and-skirt combos. The sort that gave the impression that she was the person you ought to trust to know what was going on. So as not to overly startle anyone, Jaelle slipped from around one of the aisles of snacks instead of simply appearing, and wore a smile that she hoped would put the Petersons at ease. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson. For your safety, please come with me through the emergency exit while my colleague and the owner find out more about these visitors.”

The gas station owner glared at her. “Where the hell did you come from?” but Mrs. Peterson was well over her head. She seemed glad of any sort of direction.

“Come on, Liam. I think that’s an excellent idea.”

He dug his heels in. “We said we’d wait until—“

“Until the authorities came, yes. And it looks like they’re here.” Debbie Peterson hauled her protesting husband to the door where Jaelle stood and reached for the handle.

It didn’t turn.

The gas station owner cursed. “Here, I’ll get—“


The distorted electric bell chimed with the arrival of the two men. The one in the front took off his glasses, revealing warm, gold eyes set in a well-structured face. His skin was dark, and his hair buzzed nearly to his scalp. He looked at Mal, at the gas station owner, and finally toward Jaelle and the Petersons. He sighed and his partner, a shorter man with a wealth of curling blond hair, shrugged. “Told you we’d need a cleaner.”

Gold-eyes reached into his jacket and pulled out a silenced pistol.