Cellie's POV
Sergio was parked across the street from the bar, which I had half expected and half resented, and he fell into pace approximately thirty feet behind me as I walked toward the bus stop, which was the arrangement we had developed over the past week without ever formally discussing it. He stayed far enough back that the fiction of my independence was technically intact. I stayed aware enough of him that the security was actually functional. We had never spoken directly. It worked.
My building came into view two blocks later and I was already thinking about my bed and the specific relief of horizontal when I registered that there was a car idling at the curb in front of the entrance that was not Sergio's.
Black, expensive, entirely still, with two men standing near it with the posture of people who were positioned rather than waiting, and I had lived adjacent to this world long enough now to know the difference.
I slowed.
The back door opened.
