“I think I know what’s going on,” says Wayne-Ray.

Caution grips the receiver tightly. She has no idea what he’s talking about.

“This Merlin guy,” he says. “I think he’s tracking you somehow.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s got a bug on you.”

The bad dream is now swirling out of sense and out of mind, and Caution feels as if she’s being sucked into the vortex of it. “I don’t understand.”

“He wasn’t talking to someone on his cell,” says Wayne-Ray urgently. “He was reading coordinates or something. Like he’s got Internet or whatever.”

“It’s an iPhone,” says Caution.

“There you go! Okay, listen, Cuz. If I’m right, then there’s some kind of transmitter on you.”

“What? Where?”

“Hell if I know. But it’s most likely in something you have with you all the time. Your purse or something.”

“I don’t have a purse.”

“Kitty!” he says, so loud she flinches. “Look. Look for something. I don’t know what. Something that shouldn’t be there. Do you understand?”

“I guess.”

“Call me right back,” he says, and hangs up.

Tamika is looking at her with worried eyes. “What’s wrong?” she says.

Caution is too embarrassed to say. It’s as if there is suddenly a stench in the room, and this woman doesn’t know where it’s coming from.

Caution feels the front of her jacket, pressing her fingers down hard to feel through the fleece, through the quilting.

“Are you all right?”

Caution shakes her head. Then she stands, unzipping the jacket, as if it were suddenly crawling with earwigs. She starts patting it, then lays it down on the table and presses her hands all over the sleeves and back of it.

“Kitty?”

“I can’t explain,” she says. Then she feels it. She presses hard with her index finger around the edge of some hard rectangular shape. She looks up, frantically. “Have you got a knife?” she says.

She makes a slit on the inside of the jacket and tears open the lining, revealing a black box about the size and shape of a thick lighter, with a knob on the top, an antenna. It doesn’t feel as if it weighs more than two or three ounces.

Caution sits down hard. Tamika takes the bug from her, staring at it with alarm.

“What is going on here?”

Caution picks up the cordless from the table and phones Wayne-Ray. He answers on the first ring. He asks her to look for a product name. She takes the bug back from Tamika, finds a name, and reads it to him. “I’ve got my laptop,” he says. And then a minute later — “Bingo!” he says.

Caution stares at Tamika, and they share a look of incomprehension.

“Real-time GPS tracking system with enhanced cellular assist,” says Wayne-Ray, but he’s not really talking to Caution, just reading information on a website. “Locates via Internet . . . works inside buildings . . . low battery drain . . . A-GPS and AFLT . . . three types of locate searches . . .”

“Wayne-Ray, speak to me in English!”

“Hold on, hold on,” he says excitedly, and then he mumbles to himself for another moment or so.

“Okay,” he says. “This explains a lot. This thing — it’s not like on 24 or anything. I mean, it’s not dead accurate.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he found his way here, but he couldn’t pinpoint where you were, which is why he was waiting in the car, I guess. And it was only when you took off that he started getting a different set of coordinates.”

“Am I supposed to be relieved?”

“No. Not really.” He pauses, and she doesn’t speak because she knows he has something else he needs to say. “Kitty, whatever you’re caught up in, this guy does not want to lose track of you.”

There is no mistaking the tone in her cousin’s voice, the seriousness or the reproach. She has been an idiot, and now she has dragged him into it. And then she looks at Tamika, and the horrible truth comes over her in a wave so icy cold she fears she will go under.

“Oh, God,” she says. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

Tamika scoots her chair closer and takes Kitty’s arm in her hand.

“Take it easy,” says Wayne-Ray. “At least we know what we’re dealing with here.”

“What do I do?” she says.

“Get rid of it,” he says. “But not there. Take it a long way away. You know what I mean?”

“Yes,” she says.

“Good.”

“Wayne-Ray?”

“What is it?”

“I’m frightened.”

“Get rid of it, Cuz,” he says, his voice gentle now. “And then get back to me. By phone. Be careful,” he says. And then hangs up.

She puts down the receiver and stares at Tamika. There was something else. They were talking about something important. Tamika was going to tell her something. A child. There was — is — a child. There is a child, but there is no time. All of this flits through Caution’s brain, followed right behind by a tsunami of nausea and guilt. On top of all her other crimes, she has robbed a child of its father, and now her very existence is threatening that child and its mother.

“I’ve got to go,” she says, jumping to her feet.

“Can we call the police?” says Tamika. She has no idea what is going on.

“I shouldn’t be here,” says Caution, slipping into her lacerated coat. The evil little black device is in her hand. “I shouldn’t even have come.”

“Oh, yes, you should have. And there is more I need to tell you,” says Tamika.

“No,” says Caution, cutting her off, shaking her head wildly. “Not now. Later maybe,” she says, trying to imagine a later that might include her ever invading this warm little home again. “I . . . I’ll get back to you . . . I’ll . . .”

Tamika doesn’t try to hold her back, just nods solemnly. Caution heads toward the hallway, then stops and looks back at the French doors.

“Is there a way out?” she says.

“Can you climb a fence?” says Tamika, and then a quick smile comes to her. “If half of what Spence said about you is true, you could climb the CN Tower.”

She unlocks the French doors and slides one side open.

Caution wants to bolt, to disappear, to go up in a cloud of smoke. But Tamika grabs her wrist. “You don’t know the whole story,” she says, “and you need to.”

Caution wants to argue the point. She needs to be oblivious — that’s what she needs. She needs to have never existed. But she nods lamely.

“You come back to me, sister,” says Tamika. “Do you hear what I’m saying?”

Caution nods again, not very convincingly. Then Tamika kisses her cheek, her hand warm and firm on the back of Caution’s neck. “Sister,” she whispers into Caution’s ear. She closes the door behind her. Waves through the glass. And then Caution takes off.

There was a child’s finger painting taped to the door. Red and yellow and blue handprints. There was a name in the corner: SERINA.

As Caution makes her way through the backyard and hoists herself up and over the fence, she wonders if this was what Wayne-Ray wanted for her. To know of this child, Serina, and thus to crumble the very last bit of her heart into nothing.

She knows exactly where to ditch the transmitter. She makes her way back down Parliament and finds the Nissan parked where she left it. She figured it would have been towed by now, but she’s glad it’s still there. Watching to make sure no cops are around — though there is a building full of them right here — she unlocks the door and throws the GPS device in the backseat right beside the bag of pot. She considers hiding until Merlin comes into view. Then she could throw a rock at one of the windows of the cop shop, raise the alarm. She imagines Merlin standing there, realizing what she has done to him as a swarm of cops comes running out to drag him away. She wishes there were any joy in this fantasy.

She phones Wayne-Ray just after eleven. Merlin has not returned, but her cousin has been on patrol. There is another dude parked on the street, he says: short dark hair, sharp beak, two eyebrow rings. “I bent down to take a good long look, smiled when the dude gave me the finger,” says Wayne-Ray.

Warner, thinks Caution, and remembers the gun he had inside his jacket. In a flash, she imagines a bullet in Wayne-Ray’sforehead. “Don’t piss him off, okay?” she says. “Stay away from him.”

“I think it’s time you told me who these people are,” he says.

“They are really bad people,” she says. “I already told you that.” She wants to say they are the fate she deserves, her just desserts — no one else’s. But what she can’t figure out is why Warner or any of Drigo’s people would care what happened to Merlin’s money, let alone Merlin’s flake of a former girlfriend. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” she says.

“I will. And you, too, Kitty. What are you gonna do?”

She needs to go. Get away. Leave. That or maybe throw herself in front of a subway train and be done with. No. That would be too easy. She needs to make this torture last. There can never be enough of it. In fact, maybe she already did kill herself, and this is hell doing a really good job of looking like Toronto. And if it is hell, then she will be running from Merlin and company for the rest of eternity.

“Keep in touch,” says Wayne-Ray. She never answered his question, which was probably answer enough. “But, Kitty?”

“Yes?”

“If you call, don’t say where you are, just in case.”

Just in case they’ve bugged Wayne-Ray’s place as well; that’s what he means.

“I won’t,” she says. “Good night.”

“Good night. I wish . . .”

She waits, but her cousin can’t seem to think of what it is he wishes for. She knows how he feels.

It’s after midnight. Caution stands in the deep shadows of a massive tree on Major Street just down the block from Tamika’s place. The street is deserted. She waits to be absolutely sure.

She makes her way to Tamika’s door. The houselights are off. From her Little Mermaid backpack, she pulls the money: eight thousand dollars, minus the money she used today and enough to get her through tonight and away tomorrow — somewhere, though she has no idea where. So, seven thousand four hundred dollars she never wants to see again.

She doesn’t hesitate. In the midst of her long fall into misery, what she is about to do is like a little parachute to slow her descent. She shoves the money into the mail slot, careful not to let the flap make a noise and wake the baby inside.

Then she takes off down Major in a jog, thinking about the note she has wrapped the money in.

Tamika had called her sister. Only one other person had ever called her that. It was not a word to use lightly, and when she wrote the note, sitting in a coffee shop on Front Street, she resisted it and then gave into it. She hates the name Katherine. Not even her mother called her that, except when she’d done something really bad. But she wanted the note to be taken seriously, to be like a contract between them, or does she mean a bond?

She turns onto College and heads east, not sure where she’s going anymore. She’ll stay the night in a hotel — the kind of hotel that won’t ask for a credit card or anything. There are places she knows way downtown that are scurvy enough to take cash and not ask any questions. She looks around from time to time and wishes she weren’t so exposed. College is still pretty busy, so is Spadina. She splits off left at a side street, and then south at the first road she comes to.

She drifts southward until she finds herself in a place where there are only loud boys and girls with nothing to lose. She recognizes the type; she was one of them when she first came to the city. She walks with her head down, raising a drunken whistle, an offer, a curse or two, until she turns south one more time, and the next thing she knows there’s an arm around her waist and a hand across her mouth, and she is being dragged into the shadows next to an open Dumpster.

“You must be looking for trouble, foxy lady,” says a voice she doesn’t recognize. It’s a shaky voice on the edge of frantic. She doesn’t know this man, but she knows a crystal meth freak when he’s desperate for a fix. The smell of him is worse than the stink rising from the Dumpster. He just wants my money, she thinks, not struggling at all, submitting to his rough hands, letting him feel through the pockets of her jacket, slip his hands inside her bra, in case she’s hiding anything there, tear open her Little Mermaid backpack. Then he’s gone. And she doesn’t even question the extraordinary coincidence of locating this desperate stranger. It’s another chapter of the nightmare, that’s all. And just her rotten luck that he didn’t take her life along with her last red cent. Shaking, she bends down to pick up the copy of Anna Karenina from a puddle on the concrete.