If you saw who I really am, he'd said, you'd run.

Chloe ran.

There was no decision-making in it. Something in the back of her brain, some hard-wired survival instinct, had screamed RUN and her feet had obeyed. She scarcely knew what was happening until she threw her front door shut behind her, drove the bolts home, and braced her back against it.

Somewhere in the back of her head, the place where advertising jingles got stuck and played on endless loop, she could hear Lucifer singing.

Sinner man, where you gonna run to?

The devil had been at her heels nearly every day of her life for three years. He'd been at her desk, in her home, at her crime scenes. He knew everything about her, her every secret and insecurity.

Had to think. Had to stay focused. Not calm, but focused. Where could she run?

I run to the rock, please hide me . . .

Not to family, not to friends. He knew them all. She had to run where he wouldn't think to follow. And she couldn't panic. She was a cop, a predator: she knew how the hunt went. She knew the mistakes that fugitives made. It was the same old game; she was just playing the other role now.

Was there any point? He wasn't human. He had supernatural abilities. Was there any point in trying to run from him, or would he just turn up wherever she fled, like her life had turned into the Looney Tunes?

No. No, he wouldn't. Come on, Decker, THINK. Time to use that brain. Lucifer had limitations. She knew that. She'd worked with him for years. He couldn't just know something. He had to be told it, had to see and deduce with senses no more acute than hers. He had to ask questions. He could be fooled, could draw false conclusions. He was not omniscient. He was a detective, and a good one, but so was she. If she could out-think the LAPD, she could out-think him.

I run to the sea, it was boilin' . . .

Not a second to spare. In theory, he was stranded at that loft without a car, but she had seen him move with more-than-human speed before. She'd talked herself out of believing it, but she had seen it.

And even without supernatural abilities, there was still Uber. He was the devil, but he was also still Lucifer, with a phone and a credit card.

She made a checklist in her head. Clothes, medicines, food, documents, and cash. No phone. No credit cards. Gun. Ammo. And Trixie. She could do this.

All on that day . . .

She got to work.

"It's a family emergency," she said calmly to the school secretary. That was true enough.

"I see. Beatrice Espinosa-Decker?"

"Yeah. She's in Mrs. Lundquist's class."

"I'll go get her. Could you sign here please?"

Chloe signed. She thought for a second about leaving some kind of message, since Lucifer would be looking at this paper in a few hours, max, but she decided against it. No sense in provoking a demon she was trying to escape. The temptation was there, though, to draw a devil-horned smiley face next to her signature to scream I know what you are. No point. He knew she knew.

Trixie was bewildered when she arrived in the office, but clearly glad to see her. "Mommy? What's going on?"

"I'll explain in the car. Do you have all your stuff? Great. Thank you," she told the secretary, steering Trixie to the exit.

Not for nothing was Trixie the child of two detectives. As soon as they reached the car, the canny little girl knew something was up. "Why are there suitcases in the back seat? Where are we going?"

"I'm not sure yet, Monkey. But you get shotgun, okay?"

"Cool." Trixie was almost never permitted to ride shotgun; she was still too short.

As soon as the doors were closed and locked, Chloe made an effort to explain. "Trixie, sweetie, I don't want you to be scared, okay?"

"Telling me that makes me scared," said Trixie.

"It's just that something's happened. Marcus is dead, and . . . I'm sorry, baby, but Lucifer killed him."

"Lucifer did?" Trixie's faith in her mother's partner had always been unshakable. "Why?"

"A lot of grown-up reasons. But sweetie, the important thing is that Lucifer has been lying to us. Or, I mean, he's . . . he's not who we thought he was. He's a very dangerous person. And I need to get you far away so that he can't find us."

"Why didn't he just find us last week, when he came over for dinner?" asked Trixie, ever skeptical.

"I didn't know what he was then. But now I do. And he knows I know. So we're going to have to hide for a little while, until I can figure out what to do."

"So . . . we're running away?" Trixie demanded. "From Lucifer? Our Lucifer?"

Chloe nodded, searching frantically for words to explain what she barely understood to her beloved, innocent, entirely too inquisitive child. "I know it sounds crazy. I know. But I saw him. He killed Marcus. And I saw some other crazy crap, and I'm scared, and I need to get us someplace where he can't find either of us."

Trixie nodded. "Okay. I want you to tell me about the other crazy crap, though."

Chloe sighed. "You are the best kid a cop mom could ask for, you know that?"

"Yep," said Trixie cheerfully. "Does this mean we get to have McDonald's for dinner?"

Chloe started the car and took a firm grip on the steering wheel. "Absolutely."

And just like that, the Decker ladies disappeared.