You’d think a guy who walked out on a kid of twelve wouldn’t have the nerve to come back half a lifetime later with hat in hand wanting to pick up where he left off, but that’s how it happened. Ted Raines, the stranger who shared my DNA, had stood in my front yard days after I’d lost Pop in the most horrendous way wanting to get to know me, wanting to make amends. It didn’t end well for either of us. How do you make amends for dumping a 12-year-old off on her grandparents a day after her mother’s funeral?

In the months since, he’d taken to writing me letters, none of which I’d opened. If Pop were here, we’d talk everything through over a game of chess. I’d rail and beat back against the man, his nerve, his encroachment, and Pop would gently guide me into meeting him halfway, moving past the anger, embracing forgiveness. But Pop wasn’t here. Someone evil yanked him from me. I was going to have to punch my way through on my own, like I did with most things, two steps forward, one back, longing for Pop’s calm, quiet counsel.

I sped past the second floor, avoiding the Kallishes’ door. It was still difficult seeing their apartment empty. That drive-by had been meant to send a message, to warn me off. It failed, but the nightmares it spawned still startled me awake at night drenched in fear and sweat, my mind reeling with what-ifs. The building was different now, quieter with only me and Mrs. Vincent rattling around in it, and I know she hated the feeling of emptiness just as much as I did.

The phone woke me with a start from a fitful sleep, my head popping up from the pillow, my body on full alert. I squinted at the clock on the bedside table, its glowing numerals cutting through the dark: 3:18. Phone calls at that early hour were rarely good news. Somebody was dead. I grabbed for the receiver, answered.

“Hello?”

“Cass? It’s Jung.”

I sat up on the side of the bed, panic replaced by a smoldering urge to reach through the phone and pull Jung back through it by his combat boots. “Oh, no, it had better not be. Not the same Jung I’ve been looking for?”

“No kidding?”

“Where are you?”

“Jail?”

I switched on the bedside lamp. “What?”

“I was sort of arrested.”

“What do you mean ‘sort of’?”

“Well, like, see . . . I’m not really . . . sure?”

“Are you allowed to leave the building?” I asked.

Jung was quiet for a moment. What was he doing, checking? “Yeah, I’m sure that’s a negative.”

“Then you’re not sort of arrested, you’ve been arrested. What’d you do? Never mind, don’t tell me. Call a lawyer.”

“I’d rather not. I don’t think he gets me.”