I riffled through the stack. Surveillance photos. Photos of Heriberto handing drugs off to kids. Photos through a window of Heriberto sitting at a kitchen table, counting money, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Photos of Heriberto cleaning a gun. Close-ups, albeit grainy, of the gun in his hands.

“That gun will match the bullets taken from a couple guys who were killed outside a convenience store last year,” he said. He slid the pictures around until he found one of Heriberto sitting on a porch rail. “Those shoes,” he said, “will match shoe prints taken at the scene. And we have an empty cigarette wrapper from the scene too. Same cigarettes.” He moved his finger to a close-up of Heriberto’s hand holding the cigarette. “The shoe prints and cigarette wrapper were okay evidence, but we needed more. I got more. I got a picture of him holding the gun. And I got Rebecca. She was going to testify.”

“No wonder they wanted you dead,” I whispered. The thought flashed through my mind that it could have been so much worse, what happened to him. Heriberto could have succeeded in killing him—getting rid of the cop who could take them down. I also became convinced of something else. Chris was right. There was no way they were going to leave him alone now. He had no choice; he had to finish what he’d started.

We heard the rattle of the gate opening. Nighttime had fallen on us while we were inside the locker, so technically Store4Cheap was closed. We both froze, then locked eyes, then worked together to stuff the photos back into their envelope.

“We should go,” Chris said.

I took the envelope and we hurried into his car, rolling out of the aisle just as the car that had come in started down our aisle at the other end. All I could see in the side mirror were headlights. But they were headlights that weren’t slowing.

Chris noticed it too and began driving faster, going over the speed bumps so hard I came up out of my seat. The headlights continued behind us, slow but picking up speed.

“Come on,” I whispered, as the gate, which had just closed, trundled open at a maddeningly slow pace. I glanced in the mirror again. The headlights were still coming. “Come on,” I repeated.

Finally, the gate was open enough for us to get out. We cut off a minivan in our haste. It swerved and honked, but Chris ignored them. I turned in my seat. The car behind us had gotten through the gate just in time. It nearly sideswiped the minivan, which honked again and slowed to a stop on the shoulder.

“Hold on,” Chris said. Calm. Rational. Deadly.

I wrapped my hand around the door handle and tensed my legs for leverage. Chris punched it and we took off like lightning.