I felt myself close down, but I couldn’t make myself turn away or get up and leave. Instead, I stared at him, really looked deep, searching for the something we shared. And there it was, in the eyes, that familiar shadow I’d somehow missed before. I hadn’t paid much attention, not going too far below the surface packaging. I’d been too busy closing the door, dead-bolting it, but there it was. In an instant, I knew him; he knew me. He hadn’t said “I killed a kid.” I had a difficult time saying it, too, even now. I shot a kid . . . he did not survive.

“I don’t talk about it. Neither do you. It’s something you hold on to yourself, live with, isn’t it? Something you haul around on your back, like a bag of wet sand.” He leaned back against the booth. “I’ve learned not to pick at the scab, to just let it be. The something I saw, I guess, was the trace of what that leaves behind. I’m telling you so you’ll know who and what I am. It hasn’t broken me. It hasn’t broken you. It just is.” He nodded, slid me a knowing smile. “You want to run for the door right now, but you won’t.”

I straightened, stared at him defiantly. “I don’t run.”

“Except from me.” He leaned forward again. “That’s it. I’ve made my play. Next move’s yours. I hope you don’t wait too long to make it, though. I’m not getting any younger.” The heat off the grin he gave me felt as warm as sunshine. “And make it good. I’m no pushover.”

“What if I choose not to?”

“I’m choosing not to think about that.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

“You’re not going to finish your sandwich, are you?” Weber said.

I shook my head. The diner disappeared: Muna, the din, the people around us. There was just the booth, and me and Weber. And the next move was mine.

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

I stopped Jimmy Pick before he could shoot Ben. He was my partner, my responsibility, and I was his. Stopped? Killed. I leaned back in my swivel chair, closed my eyes, tried to keep my breathing steady. It was the only thing I could have done. The only thing I knew to do. Now I had to live with it, carry it around “like a bag of wet sand,” like Weber said. Two years and counting, an entire lifetime to go.