I got on a trolley. It was the middle of the day so there were a few seats available for me to sit at, which was a plus. I'd take all the positives I could right now.

I settled in next to a guy in his early twenties with the braided beard that was so popular among the section of younger people trying rebel against the establishment these days. His faux cotton pants, matching tunic top in a cream color, and the woven sandals on his feet completed the look. At a glance, I could see my whole outfit was cheaper than his sandals alone. Rich kid playing at rebelling against the very system that allowed him to buy his fake, slumming-it clothing. He looked over at me surreptitiously.

I ignored him as I shrugged my jacked off, wincing as it slid against the cut on my upper arm. I was wearing a short-sleeve shirt underneath the jacket. The shuriken had sliced just under the edge of the sleeve. It was bleeding sluggishly. I used the lining of my jacket to wipe off the blood so I could see the wound better.

The man next to me inched away, squeezing over to the window on his side. It was probably the blood. Great. More room for me. People gave me a few odd looks, but I ignored them too as I angled my arm, trying to decide if it needed stitches. Hmm. Probably not. I'd just stick a bandage on it when I got home.

Everyone gave me a wide berth for the rest of the trip. I noted it for the future. Being stinky or having a bleeding wound gave me personal space in a crowd. That was valuable information.

The trolley came to a stop and I stood up. People in my path immediately backed away to give me room to walk through.

"Thanks," I said brightly as I got off the trolley, completely for my own amusement. "I appreciate the courtesy."

Now they really didn't know what to do.

My smile faded as I started walking towards my place. The running hadn't helped my knee much. It needed to be rested, but every time it started to feel better, I had to run for my life again.

I got to my building and limped my way up the stairs to my floor, muttering to myself.

I reached the landing right as Jacob came out of his apartment next door. Did he have a security camera planted around here or something? He turned to me, his mouth opening to greet me, but then snapping shut again as he took me in. His eyes were on my face.

"What happened to your cheek?" he demanded, his voice low.

"My cheek?" I repeated, bringing my hand up to my right cheek, the one his eyes were focused on. Even as I made the movement, I felt the sting of a scrape.

Damn it.

Why was it that it always hurt only after I thought about whatever the injury was? I probably got it when I was barreling through those alleys.

Jacob's mouth was pressed into a grim line as his attention went to my arm next.

"Yes, your cheek. And your fucking arm, Mia. What happened?"

I sighed as I limped past him to my door. I didn't have the energy to field this right now.

"I went on a job and . . . it didn't go great," I said, opening the door.

He followed me inside, right on my heels. "It seems like a lot of your jobs aren't going great lately," he pointed out, his eyes laser focused on me.

He was right.

I looked away, unable to maintain eye contact.

"That's what happened," I said.

I knew if I told him it was the same people, or if I told him about the email, he was going to give me a hard time about taking any jobs for the moment. But I needed to take them. It really rubbed me the wrong way to think that they had so much power over me that I would stop working because of them.

Whoever they were.

An awkward pause as Jacob waited for more information.

And I didn't give it.

"All right," he finally said, disappointment clear in his voice. "You need to get that arm looked at."

"It's shallow. I think I can just bandage it."

He walked over to me and gripped my arm by the elbow, turning it so he could look at the cut better.

"You have a first aid kit?" he asked, his face neutral now.

"Yes," I said, relieved to have something to do. I went to the bathroom to get the kit and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Yikes.

No wonder the people on the trolley reacted like they did.

Jacob showed up behind me, leaning against the doorframe.

My cheek was scraped across the top of my cheekbone in a painful red patch—I still didn't know how—and I looked too pale, with dark circles under my eyes. With the addition of my bleeding arm and my limp, I didn't look so hot. Sighing, I got the kit from the cabinet under the sink and brought it out to the living room.

Jacob moved back to let me pass and followed me back out. He pulled me over to the kitchen sink and cleaned out the wound, bandaging me up expertly.

"You're good at this," I observed.

He gave me an unreadable look.

"I've had jobs that didn't go so great too," he said quietly. "I've had plenty of practice." He stepped back. "Okay," he finally said. "I have to go to work. Let me know . . . let me know if you need anything. All right?"

"I will. And thanks, Jacob," I said. "I really appreciate it." I squeezed his arm, meeting his eyes. "Really."

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but then decided against it, shaking his head.

"I'll see you later," he said, turning to leave.

I was sure that wasn't what he really wanted to say, but I walked him to the door and closed it behind him, too drained to ask him what he was holding back.

I felt terrible.

Physically, yes, but also for keeping this from Jacob when he was always there for me. But it wasn't his problem. I needed to get to the bottom of whatever was going on.

I fired up the smaller computer I kept in my apartment and opened up my work email with the intention of reading that first anonymous message again.

But there was a new email at the very top, the bold letters glaring at me.

From an anonymous source. I felt my stomach tighten as I saw it. I had to know though.

Bracing myself, I clicked on it.

Be careful—there's something planned for today.

Sorry about not warning you earlier. I only just found out.

The time stamp read just before I would have been getting to the hotel. I rolled my eyes. That was helpful. I needed to know who this was. That information would lead me right to who was behind all of these attacks. And I needed to know.

I didn't know if I'd survive another one of these encounters if I was honest with myself. I'd been lucky so far. And you couldn't rely on luck forever.

I clicked reply.

Who is this?

I stared at the question for a moment, at the blinking cursor next to the short three words. This could alienate the sender, cut off my source of information, such as it was. But I needed to try.

I clicked send.

And hoped I hadn't made a mistake.