His father would have killed him for sneaking the gun out of the gun safe. He would have killed him a second time for concealing it and taking it to a college campus. But when it came to justice, Owen didn’t see in shades of gray. Raping and impregnating a girl and then leaving her high and dry was crossing a line punishable by death.

Geoffrey Faust would deserve what he got. Hopped up on testosterone and self-righteousness, Owen wanted to play judge, jury, and executioner.

Nico Bartelli wasn’t Owen’s usual fare when it came to friends. But when you’ve grown up with someone since first grade, you know if you can trust them or not. Owen trusted Nico with his life . . . and the biggest secret he would ever have.

Although Owen, for the most part, had trodden a straight and narrow path, Nico wasn’t as lucky. His grades had always been subpar, and his parents didn’t care enough to notice when he started hanging around with a high school gang. Drug deals and car thefts and run-ins with the law had been his initiation to a life on the streets.

When Owen now reconnected with Nico, he discovered his old friend was a shell of the guy he’d known. He’d done jail time for petty crimes, dabbled in drugs and illegal gambling, and occasionally made extra dough as a police snitch. The small-time hustler was all too happy to accompany Owen on his “mission” this brisk spring night, figuring he’d at least get his rocks off with a little excitement. Owen didn’t mention to Nico that he’d packed a Glock 19 in the pocket of his Tommy Hilfiger jacket.

It wasn’t hard to track Geoffrey Faust down. One call to Pizza Joe’s, where Robin had first met him, and the teen who answered gave up an address where Geoffrey usually crashed. Geoffrey turned out to be an easy target.

They found his beat-up Toyota Corolla pulled to the side of an unused road that led to a forgotten park’s overgrown entrance. Beyond the gate was a dirt path that now only saw the footprints of drug dealers and secret lovers. Honeysuckle vines snaked along the walkway to a small clearing where the carcass of a merry-go-round rusted in a rank sea of nimbleweed and quackgrass. The skeleton of a swing set remained, but the swings had long ago dry-rotted away. From the dusky edge of the tree line, Owen and Nico watched as Geoffrey sold a skittish-looking teen a dime bag of weed.

The kid dashed off into the trees as Geoffrey pocketed the ten-spot in his Eckō brand cargo jeans, then headed back toward his car. Stepping out of the shadows onto the moonlit path, Owen and Nico cut him off.

Geoffrey curtly lifted his chin in acknowledgment, playing with the rim of his Von Dutch trucker hat. “’Sup.”

“’Sup. You Geoffrey?” Nico asked.