I spread my left hand on the bench beside me, then begin lightly tapping the tip of my knife between my fingers. The warm tingle in my hand tells the knife just where to hit, and it does, every time. I speed up until my hand moves the knife swiftly and surely, twirling between my fingers like they’re nothing more than reluctant dance partners. I close my eyes. When I open them, my fingers remain unscathed.

“Nice trick you’ve got there.”

Two men stand beside my bench, watching. One is short and burly. His hands move in and out of his pockets like he’s lost something and doesn’t know what. The other is tall and lean, and even in the dark, a mean glint lights his eyes. His teeth flash, caught somewhere between a smile and a sneer.

Dangerous. A warning zings through my blood. The same way it did every time an older foster kid approached me with want coupled with cruelty in their eyes. They usually wanted me to steal something from the foster-whatever for them so that if it went wrong, I would take the fall. I always did it. As an unspoken rule, they came to me and never Parker.

I hope he’s okay at his new home with Jacob and Deb. I hope all my protecting did him good, left him innocent enough to live a normal life.

It left me hard, so even when I feel the brush of danger, my muscles tighten and then loosen with the familiarity of it.

I smile one of my many smiles. This one is meant to disarm.

It works. The men share a glance.

“Bad time of night to be out here alone,” says the skinny one.

I ignore the threat lurking behind the words.

“Would either of you like to make a wager?” I ask.

The question throws them. The shorter one frowns as he looks toward his friend.

The tall one bounces his eyes back to me, intrigued. “What’d you have in mind?”

I wave my knife hand. “Twenty dollars says I can stab this between my fingers without drawing blood.”

“No dice. We just saw you do it.”

“Blindfolded.”

He raises his eyebrows, and I give him my best predatory smile, like I’m the overconfident one in this situation. He holds out his hand to his friend, who grunts and fishes a wrinkled-up twenty from his pocket. I pull my own twenty out and lay it on the bench before digging out the handkerchief from my pocket that was there for the final part of my trick with Roman. I fold it into a narrow line and fit it around my eyes, fumbling with the tie.

“I can help you with that.” The tall one’s voice is smooth, charming almost, if you ignore the acid underneath.

“I’ve got it.”