“You up to going to the bar with me?” The agent took a few steps toward the door.

Trancelike, Matt nodded.

“You want to get a jacket or umbrella? It’s raining.”

Matt shook his head and followed her out.

A small crowd had gathered in the hallway, gawking students. Matt didn’t know if word had spread about his family or if they thought he was being arrested for something.

The agent—he still couldn’t conjure her name—pushed ahead to the elevator. Inside, Matt said, “Has the media got this yet?”

The agent gave him a knowing look. “It hit the wire, but they haven’t released your last name. They wait a little while to allow time to notify the family.”

“You know what’s gonna happen when they find out, right?” Matt shook his head in disgust. That goddamn Netflix documentary.

The agent nodded.

The elevator doors spread open and they were met by a mob of reporters and blinding camera flashes.

CHAPTER 2

The ride to the bar was a blur. Matt sat in the back seat in the stop-and-go traffic of Greenwich Village feeling punch-drunk from the news and from the paparazzi hurling questions at him: Why weren’t you in Mexico with your family? How do you feel? Do you think it was really an accident? Does your brother know?

The agent had just plowed through the crowd, grabbing Matt’s wrist and dragging him in her wake. When a guy with a camera stepped in front of them on the way to the car, she’d calmly flashed her badge and looked him up and down. He’d cowered away. New York paparazzi weren’t timid souls, so the guy must have sensed that she wasn’t one to trifle with.

Now, Matt stared out the window, the wet road smeared with red taillights. His thoughts skipped again to the reporters. Does your brother know?

Danny had no television, internet, or phone, of course. But Matt’s dad always said that news—particularly bad news—had a way of penetrating prison walls at light speed. And with Danny’s celebrity status from the documentary, he’d hear soon enough.

The car pulled in front of Purple Haze. The place looked grimier in the daylight, the roll-up metal security doors covered in graffiti. Trash bags puddled with rainwater piled on the sidewalk. A man in a tracksuit was bouncing on his feet under the awning. He peered into the car like he was expecting them, and walked over.

“You with the Feds?” he said, stooping so he could see inside the car. He was heavyset and balding. Sweat beaded on his forehead, even in the chill.

“Special Agent Keller,” she said, all business. Matt finally had a name.

“I got a call about a problem at the club,” the man said in a Brooklyn accent. “We run a clean operation, so I don’t—”