Enrique nodded. Snorted.

“I had one of those, a long time ago,” Sebastian said. He groaned as he got to his feet, his knees popping, and he moved to the tools. “That type of love doesn’t come around too often. If it does and you’re anything like me, you’d sell your soul to the devil to protect it. To keep it.”

When Sebastian came back, he reached for the kid’s head. Enrique flinched, bucking against his restraints, and screamed.

“Relax,” Sebastian said softly, and used the dirty blue rag he’d found to wipe the snot away from Enrique’s face. “I saw a picture of her. In the file. Carmella’s a very pretty woman. I’m sure you want to give her the world—am I right? Her and your son.”

The kid didn’t answer.

“You an alcoholic?” Sebastian asked, tossing the rag aside. “An addict?”

“No, sir. I’m clean, I swear.”

“I’m not judging. I’m one. An alcoholic. Although, if I’m being honest, I’m probably an addict, too, even though I’ve never done coke or any of the other hard stuff. But if I tried it even now, even with all the sobriety I have? I’d be hooked”—Sebastian snapped his fingers —“just like that.”

Sebastian picked up his chair and moved it closer. “What I’m trying to say is, I know myself. I know my true nature. It will never change. That’s what recovery has taught me. That and probably the single most important life lesson: the importance of accountability.”

Enrique swallowed several times, his throat working.

“No one can make me drink or use, Enrique. I’m the one who decides whether to pick up a drink or a drug. Sure, I can blame it on people, places, and things—a divorce, death, accident, what have you—but when you really stop and analyze it, those things can’t make me drink or use. It’s my decision. Which brings us to you and your current situation.”

Sebastian sat a few inches away and leaned forward. He could smell the sour odor rising from the kid’s armpits, the product he used in his hair.

“File I have on you says you work full-time at a Best Buy selling electronics or some shit,” Sebastian said. “Carmella is a waitress at that Italian place that’s in walking distance from your apartment. I’m guessing that’s not really paying the bills, which is why you got into selling those blood pills—am I right?”

“My son—he’s—” Enrique cut himself off. His jaw trembled, his eyes filling with fresh tears.

“What about your son?”

“He needs me. He’s got issues.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Then, when Enrique didn’t answer, “Go on, tell me. I want to know.”

“We think he’s autistic. Pretty sure he is. The health insurance I’ve got is for shit. Specialist we want him to see isn’t covered and he’s expensive, but he’s the best in the state.”

Sebastian nodded in understanding. “So you’re trying to make some extra money to do the right thing by your kid, your family. I can respect that. Would do the same thing if I were in your shoes, probably.