Condor picked up on the first ring. He helped my limping father into bed. And ten years ago, he took those photographs of poor Becky Sarinelli, and passed them around to everyone as a joke.

True or false? Good or evil? I’m beginning to think Misha was onto something. Maybe the line isn’t so clear after all.

“I should get some sleep,” I tell him.

But as I turn away, he skims my shoulder with a hand, and just that touch freezes me in place.

“Listen.” He licks his lips. I imagine following the line of his teeth with my tongue. “I don’t mean to overstep—I mean, you’re obviously dealing with a lot. I read things wrong…” He looks uncertain, and momentarily young. “Did I read things wrong?”

My whole body burns from standing so close to him. I can feel the rhythm of my heart beating in my ears. “You told me you made a lot of mistakes back when you were younger. Was Becky Sarinelli one of them?”

The change is immediate. It’s like a gate slams down behind his eyes.

“Where did that come from? Who did you talk to?” Even his voice sounds different. For a moment, I’m afraid of him. Of his bigness. Of the darkness. Of the fact that no one is around to witness whatever happens next.

I lift my chin. “Just answer the question.”

For a long time, he stands there, staring at me. The long look of his hatred hooks me right in the stomach, makes me dizzy with guilt and regret.

Finally, he laughs. But there’s no humor in it. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you got me there. Becky Sarinelli was one of those mistakes.”

I turn, stumbling on the grass, and hurry for the door. I’m not sure why, but my throat feels raw and I’m suddenly sure I’ll be sick. I drop the keys on the porch, snatch them up again, and shove them in the lock.

“Why did you really call me tonight, Abby?” he shouts after me. Taunting me.

“I don’t know,” I tell him. I slip inside, close the door and lock it. For a long time, I’m afraid to look outside, afraid to see him there. But when I finally work up the courage to check the window, there is nothing outside but the night.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The phone yanks me awake just before dawn.

It goes silent before I can find it—still buried at the bottom of my bed, under a pile of yesterday’s balled-up socks and underwear, gum wrappers, and wrinkled receipts. It’s almost dead, of course—but starts ringing again right away.

Joe. For God’s sake. I almost hit ignore.

“You don’t get to be a pain in the ass until after nine A.M.,” I say.

“There’s been a fire,” Joe says. Nothing else. No details. No panic. Just: there’s been a fire.

I stand up and sway slightly, lightheaded. “Where?” I say, although I already know.

“Gallagher’s,” he says. “Get here.” He hangs up.