I walked across the road, barefoot but not really caring. The road was cool on the soles of my feet, and then the grass of the cemetery was soft and inviting. I wove my way through, avoiding stepping on any obvious graves, until I found a stack of tombstones that didn’t belong to anyone. The names had worn off to the point that the etchings were barely there, unreadable, but at some point had belonged to someone. Now, they just leaned up against the fence as if waiting for something to happen. Or maybe for someone to help them get home. For some reason they called to me, and I just stood there, trying to decipher their names that I knew had been scoured by far better professionals than me.

A swaying body stepped up to my right. “Hi, Robert,” I said. “They all thought I was one of the bad guys. And you know what, it sucks. All along they thought I was a mole, and I was just trying to do right by my gran, by everything I’d been taught all those years ago.”

“Friend.”

I sighed. “Friend is tired. Friend is . . . confused.” I paused. “Thanks again, for your help last night. I’ll get you something to eat. What do you want?”

“Whiskey,” he grumbled and I laughed.

“You’re my kind of skeleton. I’ll get you some whiskey.”

He didn’t say anything more, didn’t respond to my thanks. I glanced at him and he was pointing back the way I’d come. I turned to see someone approaching who I really, really didn’t want to see.

Not then, not ever.

Himself strode across the grass, stepping on graves as if they meant nothing, as if no one was in them. “Robert. Don’t kill him.”

Robert let out a low grumble.

“Breena, what the hell are you doing here?” Himself snapped. “I came here to talk to my cousin about the new business he’s starting, and I see you leaving his apartment?” His face was flushed, bright spots of color racing across his cheeks and forehead, right up to where his hair receded. Badly receded, I amended.

Here’s the thing. You shouldn’t argue with a woman who knows all your secrets. Certainly not in public. “I got tired of waiting for you to get it up, Alan. Corb knows how to treat a woman right. He’s very, very good at it.”

His eyes about bugged out. “You’re sleeping with my cousin? Are you serious? You can’t be.”

I smiled, didn’t deny or agree. Just smiled. “What are you doing here, Alan?” I almost called him Himself.