Snap!

A choked gasp. As Robyn wheeled to run, she saw a shadow lunge at her.

Thwack.

Something hit the back of Robyn's head. She spun as a shadowy figure raised a chunk of concrete. It caught Robyn on the cheek. She stumbled back, tripped and went down. As she fell, the cell phone started to slip. She grasped it tighter, pulling her arm under her and landing facedown on it.

"Did you hear that?" said a distant voice. "Call for backup."

A radio squawked. Footfalls sounded in the next alley. Robyn's assailant let her go and ran.

Robyn scrambled to her feet. She slipped and recovered, but when she looked up, her attacker was gone. She heard an officer radioing for backup, saying that they might have found the suspect. Robyn almost called out, saying that their suspect was getting away. Then she remembered who those officers were looking for: her.

She looked down at herself, bloodied and battered. A bump on the head, a scrape on the cheek – proof she'd been in a fight, maybe with Portia. If those officers found her, they wouldn't keep looking for the fleeing killer; they'd presume they already had her.

Robyn took off.

FINN

John Findlay – Finn since first grade when there'd been three Johns in his class – stared down at the body of Portia Kane, lying flat on her back, shirt ripped open, blood-smeared nipple rings glistening under the harsh light.

"This is one photo you wouldn't want in the tabloids," he murmured.

He lifted his gaze from the body and looked around the room for the ghost of Portia Kane, hovering over her body in disbelief or huddled in a corner, pulling her torn blouse closed. Nothing. Maybe she'd headed back into Bane to get in a few more minutes of clubbing before she was trundled off to the great beyond.