“Yes, I know, you’re not technically back yet.” I chewed on my thumbnail. “So if we can’t get it out of impound, can we get ourselves in?”

He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, can we get into the car while it’s in impound?”

“They’re not going to give it to us without ID and registration. Honestly, I’m surprised they haven’t sold it at auction yet. Nobody coming forward to claim it—”

“Can we at least try?” He gave me a hesitant look, his mouth still open from being interrupted. I stood, paced around to the other side of his desk. “You have to understand,” I said. “I can’t just let this go. Luna isn’t someone who broke probation and took off. She’s dangerous.” I placed my hands on his desk and leaned over him. “Trust me on this. You would have agreed to do it . . . before.”

That was maybe not entirely true. Chris had never quite warmed up to my tactics. I basically had to force him into everything or do it on my own.

Like that was going to change now.

But he didn’t have to know that.

He watched me a minute longer. I could feel low-level magenta and purple pulsing at my feet, and chose to ignore them as best I could.

“Okay. We can try. When?”

I reached over and grabbed his cane, shoved it across the desk at him. “How about now?”

4

THE IMPOUND LOT consisted of a grungy trailer surrounded by a tall chain-link fence covered with warning signs. Behind the gate were rows upon rows of cars in various states of disrepair. Chris pulled up outside the trailer and parked.

“This is a waste of our time,” he said.

“You never know until you try,” I said, popping my door open. I turned around and grabbed his cane out of the backseat.

“I actually do know. Impounding cars is something we do every day.” He took the cane from me, but I noticed he didn’t really need it to get out of the car. He was improving.

“Well, so it’s registered to Jones. He’s gone. His family won’t claim it because it wasn’t his. I’m guessing it was actually Bill Hollis’s, because everything in the free world belongs to Bill Hollis in one way or another, and he’s not going to claim it, either.”

Chris squinted. “Because he’s gone, too,” he said. I nodded. He seemed to search for a moment. “Shot?” I nodded again, my stomach dropping. What would he do when he finally remembered that night? When he finally remembered who shot Bill Hollis? And why? His forehead creased, and he rubbed it. “That’s all I’ve got.”