Sebastian didn’t like it when Frank stripped guys down for interrogation. Their junk shriveled up, and more often than not they pissed and shit themselves—sometimes from fear, almost always when Frank went to work on them. Torture was Frank’s domain, and he insisted on setting the stage and mood right from the very beginning. People felt vulnerable when they were naked, Frank liked to say, and were more inclined to tell the truth.

Enrique was definitely on the right path. Head hung low and eyes slammed shut, he shivered from fear and from the cold and from the sobbing, an ugly and heartbreaking mewing that echoed inside the tiny bay of the auto garage. It was a sound Sebastian recognized all too well: I don’t belong here. I can’t die—not now, not in a place like this.

Sebastian stood in front of him, reading, by flashlight, the detailed file Frank had prepared on the boy. Sebastian took his time; there was no need to rush. The garage had gone into foreclosure, so no one would be stopping by, and Frank had disabled the alarm system installed by the bank. If the kid screamed, that was fine, too. The place was in a strip mall that had tanked. Frank, as always, had done his homework.

Sebastian handed the file to Frank and said, “How about giving us some privacy?”

Frank didn’t argue. He nodded to Ron’s three men, and they filed out the side door, into the night. The door shut with a bang that made Enrique jump in his seat.

Sebastian sat down in the stiff plastic chair brought in from the tiny waiting room off the front door. He crossed his legs and sighed, seeing his breath plume in the air. The garage smelled of grease and the kid’s sweat and cheap cologne.

“That file I was just reading,” Sebastian said, bundled in a warm Patagonia jacket and a pair of thin black leather gloves. “It says you’ve got a kid. What’s his name, again? Your son’s.”

Enrique mumbled something under his sobs.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Sebastian said.

“Jonathan.” Enrique snorted, blinking away tears. “His name is Jonathan. He’ll be four. In February.”

“Great age.” Sebastian looked behind Enrique, at the wall of shelving and pegboards holding a wide assortment of auto parts and tools. “What’s the deal with your girlfriend? Carmella. You love her?”

The kid’s head bobbed up. Snot and tears ran down his lips and chin, dripping onto his lap.

“Do you love her?” Sebastian asked again.

“Yes,” the kid replied, his voice clear. “With all my heart.”

Sebastian believed him. His eyes were bloodshot and wet, but Sebastian could see the emotion in them.

“Where’d you guys meet? High school?”

“Middle school,” Enrique replied.

Sebastian’s eyebrows jumped. “Really?”

Enrique sniffed, trying to wipe his mouth and nose against his bare shoulder since his forearms were tied down to the chair’s armrests. “We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“Was it one of those things where you looked at her and you just knew?”