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She breaks first. “You have people.”

“Yes.”

“That’s who you were talking to.”

“Yes.”

Her fingers touch her pendant again, then stop like she remembers my warning.

I clock the movement anyway. That charm is a problem. Maybe not the only problem, but it’s one I can touch.

“Don’t,” I say again.

She inhales. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” I keep my voice flat. Not harsh. Just true. “It’s a habit. Habits get tracked.”

Silence stretches.

Then she says, carefully, “What do you think it is?”

“A beacon,” I answer.

Her breath catches in a way that isn’t theatrical. It’s the sound of a brain snapping two pieces of reality together.

“That’s… insane.”

“Most people think that right before they disappear.”

She stares at the dashboard like it might offer her a softer world.

I take the next turn, a gentle curve uphill, and my gaze lifts to the rearview mirror again.

A silver hatchback has been behind us since the last light.

Maybe coincidence.

Maybe not.

I don’t react. I don’t lean forward. I don’t speed up.

I let it be.

I’ve seen men die because they couldn’t tolerate uncertainty.

“Lena,” I say quietly. “Plate check on the hatchback. Three cars back.”

A pause.

“Working.”

Lark’s voice is low now. “You can do that?”

I don’t answer. Because the answer isn’t reassuring.

We can do a lot of things.

So can the people hunting her.