"Ms. Pruitt, your accounts have been flagged for suspected fraud. We have no choice but to freeze them. We appreciate your understanding..."
I fished out the last crumpled bills from my pocket, hoping to find somewhere to sleep for the night.
But the moment I stepped toward a small motel, the woman behind the counter spat in my face.
"You're that little con artist from the news, aren't you? Get out!"
I hadn't eaten all day.
The wounds on my body had already begun to fester, oozing with infection. I pressed my palm to my forehead. It was burning. My legs refused to carry me another step, and I crumpled beside a dumpster in a narrow alley.
People passed by. The ones who recognized me hurled rotten eggs and slop water, aiming straight for my open wounds without a shred of hesitation.
I missed the quiet of the mountain. I missed my mentor.
But I knew I couldn't leave.
Tomorrow was Ian Delgado's birthday.
When he'd had his hand around my throat earlier, I'd already felt it — his pulse, erratic and fractured beyond repair.
I needed to see that moment.
The thought dragged me to my feet. I braced one hand against the wall, clenched my teeth, and staggered forward.