I slam the door shut, then look at my phone. The text is an alert from our app.
“Help! He’s here!” it reads.
Tory’s in trouble.
Not even thinking twice, I loop my satchel purse over my head, messenger bag-style. Instead of using my keys to unlock the apartment door, I run to my baby, and switch the scooter on.
I’ve never been to Tory’s apartment in North Beach, but from the address the app lists, it’s not far. Maybe a ten minute drive. As I ride off, I’m anxious whether I’ll get there in time.
Going over Nob Hill and down through Chinatown is dangerous, downhill and slippery all the way. I have my GPS on and directions are coming in through my headset.
The man knows who Tory is, and that she’s alive, this we know. Why i...

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