"Hands off her!" a woman screams. Her voice cuts through the Mariner Mall like a siren. Ivy's fingers tighten on the stranger's hair. She yanks once, hard. The woman's heel scrapes the polished floor, a high gasp. People turn. Phones lift. A child cries. "Let go!" another voice—calm, practiced—before a hand clamps around Ivy's wrist. A second hand lands on her shoulder like a weight. For a blink she thinks it's security. Then she sees the man: neat blazer, linen scarf, the kind of face that smiles for charity dinners. Forrest Perkins, or someone like him. He grins. "You can't—" he begins. Then the palm across Ivy's cheek lands. Pain stabs bright. She tastes metal. Hot. The crowd hushes. Shopfront mannequins stare. A woman drops her latte and it blossoms across the tiles. "Don't touch her!" a dozen voices say. Too late. Men in expensive sneakers move closer, a practiced ring. Two of them drift behind the kid playing with a balloon. A woman with a stroller steps forward—exactly where she should not. Ivy measures. The mall is a funnel: three levels of glass and chrome, escalators like veins carrying bodies past the central atrium. CCTV cameras blink from the ceiling. Security booths gleam. The railings are thick glass. The river of shoppers is a current. Someone could shove. Someone could drag. She lets the adrenaline coat her tongue. Her left hand finds the hairpin at the base of