Gabriel suspected that the perpetrator was Seanna, who wasn’t picky about the rules if they stood between her and a fix. Not that she came to his defense. It had been something of a shock, as he grew up, to realize that other mothers defended and cared for their children. Seanna was like a feral bitch, grudgingly sharing her territory with her half-grown pup, doing whatever it took to ensure her own survival, even if it meant snatching dinner from her offspring’s mouth.

Gabriel had denied stealing the money, but the man—Doug—had been determined to teach him a lesson. Thus began a regimen of abuse that lasted three months, until Gabriel scraped up a hundred dollars and gave it to him. That had been almost more painful than the persecution itself. To plead guilty to a crime he hadn’t committed? Humiliating. To turn over money—his own money—was even worse. But he had, because he’d reached the point where he’d do anything to stop the torment.

In the memory, he was walking to school. He seemed safe, but about halfway there he realized Doug had simply gone ahead to cut him off. Now Gabriel was flying down alleys and back roads, zipping between cars, running for his life, because that’s what Doug had threatened: that he’d kill him. And from what Gabriel had heard, it would not be Doug’s first murder.

At last, he’d darted among the debris of a half-demolished building. As he hunkered there, struggling to catch his breath, he burned with blinding rage. But it wasn’t true anger, not the sort that would propel him to take action, because he couldn’t do anything to Doug without getting hurt worse in return. That’s what the rage truly was about: frustration and impotence and self-loathing and disgust, because he couldn’t solve this problem, and he could always solve his problems. This one loomed like a Titan above him, relentless and all-powerful, and as he crouched there, listening to Doug taunting him, closing in . . .

Gabriel started awake with a gasp. He sat up, then held completely still, mentally listing every weapon in his bedroom—gun, gun, knife, bat, knife—his gaze pausing on each hiding spot, as if he could see it in the darkness. Weapons, money, even food—it was stashed throughout his apartment, the security talismans he needed to feel safe. He’d hidden it all well enough that he shouldn’t need to worry about Olivia throwing open a kitchen cupboard and saying, “What’s up with the twenty cans of stew?” but he still did worry, however irrationally—

Olivia.