I walk out of Braden’s apartment and decide to walk the long way home. For once, my thoughts aren’t racing. I’m moving without a clear purpose, but I’m sure eventually I’ll get home.

I’m waiting for the crosswalk sign to flicker from the orange hand to the blinking white figure when I catch my reflection in the darkened window of a passing black car. I’m smiling to myself, like Mona Lisa or like a girl with a secret. It makes me looking alluring.

The white figure starts blinking and I force myself to move forward. My movement feels lighter than it has in months. I’m not quite floating, but I am relieved.

After all this time worrying about what to do about Braden and myself, I’m starting to feel some clarity. The chorus of questions—“Should I hand over the blueprints?” “Should I perjure myself to the Feds?” “It this feeling between Braden and I real? Or is it lust run wild?”—that rush of voices has quieted down.

I feel sure of him; I feel certain we’re building towards something. Braden and me.

I clap my hand over my mouth and can barely stop myself from laughing and doing a small, quick little skip. Braden made me breakfast. We talked about those things that drive us forward—we both love racing and pushing ourselves and the cars. We both crave that sense of freedom that comes with moving faster than has ever been possible.

The blueprints aren’t mine to handover, I know that now. I want a future with Braden—a real one based on honesty and respect. I want us to challenge each other, yes, but I don’t want to betray him before we’ve even started.

I have to tell him what I did. I have to tell him about taking the prints and about the agent who’s chasing him down. He might never forgive me—but I can’t think about that now.

He might be able to explain himself, though. He might be able to explain why he’s putting himself and our whole sport in jeopardy. He might be able to explain how this isn’t cheating; how he’s not undercutting my team and my job. He might.

He might not, but suddenly I’m not sure how much I care anymore. I want to be with him and sit at the kitchen island and talk with him until we’re both blue in the face and have used every word known to man. I want to understand him completely. I want him to understand me.

I need to get home. I’ll grab the blueprints and race back to his house. I’ll give them to him and ask him to make the right choice for all of us—himself, me, and the racing world. We’ll figure out what that is together.

Raising my hand to my lips, I step to the curb and whistle so loudly other people on the street cover their ears and wince. A small child is holding his mother’s hand and looks at me in awe, his small mouth agape. I wink at him and smile, stepping into the street and opening the door of the yellow cab that screeches to a standstill in front of me.

“Step on it,” I tell the cab driver. He takes off, both of us enjoying our turn as characters in the Sunday afternoon movie.

The cabbie pulls on my street and there are cars backed up down the street for miles.

“I can get out here,” I say, taking a wad of bills out of my wallet and pushing them into his hand. I overpaid, but I don’t want to wait. I wanted to be home, blueprints in hand to try to catch Braden before another moment passes.

Suddenly, time feels like it’s moving too fast and I start to run towards home, making a right into the driveway and running headlong into the arms of Agent Harrison.

“Jesus,” he says. “Is there someone chasing you?”

I pull myself backwards, confused for a second. How is this guy here? Why is he here?

Agent Sanchez is standing in front of my door and I watch him walk towards me slowly. He has a toothpick in his mouth. I wonder vaguely if they had lunch in my neighborhood or if they grabbed to sandwiches in the city and ate them on the road.

“You scared me,” I say, taking care to keep my voice steady and light. I pull my wrist from Harrison’s hand. He was gripping my wrist harder than he needed to keep me still. I rub it lightly.

Then I force myself to smile widely. “Did we have an appointment?”

“No,” Sanchez says, coming up to stand next to his partner. They’re a blocking my path to the front door, so I move to the right.

They move with me.

Sanchez smiles down at me. “Sorry to barge in on you, but we understand you have what we need. You have the evidence on Braden, don’t you? We can’t wait anymore for you to, uh,” here he takes the toothpick out of his mouth, “to do the right thing.” His mouth stretches in an approximation of a smile.

A flash of panic courses through me. Have these men been watching me? Were they able to uncover the specifics of Bredan’s schema for race day?

The spied on me once, but is it ongoing? Did they watch me and Braden last night? Were they somehow about to see into the kitchen this morning—that warm intimate private scene of two people falling in love?

Or are they bluffing? I felt the acid in my stomach begin to turn.

As if on cue, the two agents move towards me. They’re larger than I remember—one of them smells like fried onions, one like gym socks and Listerine. I briefly reflect on the randomness of my thoughts at a time like this, but the mind is a strange thing.

“Do you have his plans, Jenna?” Harrison asks her. His voice is low. His eyes are cold.

I shake my head hard, twice.

“That’s funny,” Sanchez says, “her nostrils just flared. It’s like she’s lying to us. You don’t think she’s lying to us, do you?”

“No way,” Harrison says, his mouth twisting. “She’s too smart for that. You’re too smart to lie to the FBI, right?”

“Okay,” I say, “fine, I have them. But—” I think quickly. “They’re not here.”

They don’t say anything, but look at me doubtfully.

“I swear,” I say. I can hear the desperation in my own voice. I look down, trying to buy some time to come up with a plausible lie.

“Oh yeah?” one of the agents says. Harrison, perhaps? I don’t lift my head to see.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yes. I have it in the safe in my team’s office. I didn’t want Braden to find them or anything to happen to them.”

I lift my head to see how my words have landed. Sanchez and Harrison exchange a look. Sanchez glances over his shoulder at my front door. All at once it’s clear to me—they don’t have a warrant to search my home. They don’t have anything on me—or Braden, for that matter.

Suddenly I wonder if there’s anything they can actually do if I don’t comply. Have they been playing me this whole time?

I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’d like to go into my home, and unless you can conjure a warrant from thin air, I’m going to ask you as politely as I can to leave my driveway and my property.”

“Jenna.” Harrison grabs my wrist again. “We have a lot of information; we have a pretty solid case against him and against you. We’ve offered you immunity but it’s contingent on you being able to deliver useful information.”

I pull my wrist back. “Honestly? I don’t think you have much, Agent Harrison. If you did, I’m positive you wouldn’t be stuck outside of my home—you’d be here with a team turning this whole place over. You either have nothing or close to nothing.” I can feel my hands shaking, whether with anger or fear I can’t say.

“We’re coming to the race tonight,” he says, moving so close to my face our noses are nearly touching. “You will bring us Braden’s plans or we’re going to consider you an accomplice to whatever it is he has planned. Immunity will be off the table and you won’t be given an opportunity for a plea deal. I will personally make sure of that.”

Neither of us say anything for a moment more.

I take a breath and say: “I asked you, sirs, to leave my property.” I push through them, put my key in the lock and walk through the door.

I slam it shut and lean my back against it for a second until my breathing settles down. Then I turn the dead bolt and secure the chain. My hands, I realize, are still shaking.

“What am I going to?” I whisper, letting myself slide to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. The peaceful calm of the morning is gone, replaced by fear for my team, my career, and for Braden.

What the hell is he doing to us?

Then, like a bolt, it comes to me: a clear plan.

I know what to do, and if I can pull this off I might be able to save Braden, myself, and the future of both our teams.