I took mountains of circumstantial evidence to the police. Evidence that pointed toward the Gables and away from my mother. I remember what it was like to be scorned by those officers. I remember the very moment they swept aside all my research and told me that my claims and accusations were nothing more than the wishful thinking of a child. I remember what it was like when lawyer after lawyer dismissed me, often refusing to see me at all. I remember how the ones who did see me smiled as they told me how much they charged, knowing damn well I couldn’t pay. I remember all the unanswered messages I left for my mother’s public defender.

I remember the feeling of failure and shame. I couldn’t face my mom—and just when I thought I could, just when I thought I had built up the nerve . . .

. . . she died.

She hung herself in her cell.

When I look down at my hands, it’s her blood I see, staining my nails, darkening my frustratingly long life line.

I trusted the word of strangers over my own mother’s pleas. I was just as guilty as Lander and Travis and Edmund. In a very real way we were all killers.

And now we all have to go.

My eyes fly open as Lander continues to stroke my hair. His brow is creased as he studies me, his eyes imploring me to explain the pain he sees in my expression.

With all my strength I push against his chest, taking him off guard. He falls back against the wall and I’m immediately on him, tearing at his shirt, biting at his neck. Around us are the ghosts of the past, the bones of the city, the reality behind the façades. And as Lander grabs me and whirls us around so that now I’m the one against the wall, I’m the one immobilized as he presses my arms above my head.

This is the violence of us.

His mouth is crushed against mine, hungry and needing. His hands reach under my skirt, pulling my panties down, letting them drop to my ankles where I impatiently kick them away. A cacophony of sound rolls down the alley from the street, encircling us and filling us with an energy much more primitive than the sophisticated restaurants and cocktail lounges only steps away.

But those things are the façades—the city’s pretenders. Lander and I can play the game, but we aren’t pretending tonight. We’re here, in the stripped-down, raw ruthlessness of the city—embracing the brutality that scores of mayors and gentrifiers have tried to erase.

But they can’t. They can hide the truth, dress up the history, cover up the savagery . . . but they can’t erase the past. You can’t erase what’s real.