“That’s a dream, Gabriel,” she said. “Sometimes it’s stories we make up in our heads, and sometimes it’s memories, good and bad, all jumbled up and strange.”

Which was not what he experienced at all. He saw exact replays of memories, as if he was reliving them. And they were never good ones.

As he got older, he hid the fact that he did not dream, as he hid the fact that he’d rather not be touched. Anything that called attention to himself was dangerous. By the time he reached college, he was too old to be put in foster care, too big for anyone to harass. Standing out then was good. It was how you got noticed and got ahead.

So when the topic of dreams arose in a freshmen psych group project, he’d been honest.

“I don’t dream.”

One of the girls had leaned toward him—too close, and he’d had to brace himself not to pull back. “Come on, Gabriel. Everyone dreams.”

“I don’t.”

“Let’s look at it another way,” she said. “Dreams in general. Hopes and wishes. What do you dream of?”

“Nothing.”

They’d gotten annoyed with him then. Clearly he was being an ass, and they’d likely already started drawing that conclusion, which was fine—one could get further being hated than being liked. But in this case, he was telling the truth. Dreams implied wispy, ephemeral things that floated somewhere beyond reach. Gabriel had goals and ambitions.

By now, even the replaying of memories was a rare occurrence. But that night, after he had dinner with Olivia and went to bed, the memories came. Of all the ones from his youth, these were, perhaps, the most terrifying.

His mother—Seanna—had men. They weren’t boyfriends. Technically, they weren’t clients, either. They were men who came by for sex and gave her something in return—drugs, rent, groceries, goods to pawn. There were men. Suffice it to say that.

The problem began when one of them accused eight-year-old Gabriel of relieving him of the hundred dollars in his wallet. Which was ludicrous. Not that Gabriel was incapable of picking a pocket. He’d inherited his mother’s light fingers, and by eight he was an expert. But he knew better than to steal from his mother’s friends. That lesson had come from his aunt Rose. The Walshes were a family of con artists and thieves, and so the lesson was as valid as teaching another child to wear a bicycle helmet. Family, friends, and friends of the family are not marks.