He pulled out his key and moved his hand toward the lock, but his door wasn’t quite closed. Scratches marred the jamb, and the frame was splintered around the deadbolt. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he gave the door a two-finger push. It swung inward with a squeak.

Trashed didn’t come close to describing his apartment.

His couch was turned on its back. Slashed cushions spilled their guts across the area rug. His glass coffee table was smashed. Graffiti—and what might be feces, judging from the smell—covered the walls. Conor didn’t go beyond the foyer, but he could see the kitchen drawers had been pulled out, dumped, and broken. The cabinet doors had been pulled off the frames. Splintered wood, utensils, and broken dishes were heaped on the tile.

No point looking for clean clothes. From what he could see through the open bedroom door, the contents of his closet had been shredded. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to call the police. Then he remembered there were two cops downstairs.

Shock gave way to relief that Kirra hadn’t been inside the apartment when the looters had broken in.

The odor overwhelmed his nostrils. He went back outside and jogged down the stairs. The streetlight cast deep shadows over the alley.

Two forms stepped out of the darkness behind the Dumpster. Conor recognized one of them as the kid from Monday night. He scanned the alley. Of course, the cops who’d tailed him all day were nowhere in sight. Surely they’d notice when he didn’t come back.

Anger simmered in Conor’s belly. “Did you destroy my place?”

His answer was a whir of a revolver cylinder spinning. The metallic sound echoed between the brick buildings. “I know you got my dog.”

Well, that wasn’t good. One kid with a knife he’d handled. Two kids with a gun was a whole different story. The .38 in the kid’s small hand looked like a cannon.

The friend stepped sideways. Conor mirrored him, keeping the wall at his back. There was no way he’d let these kids flank him.

“I’m not leaving without my property.” Kid number one raised the gun, turned it on its side, and pointed the muzzle at Conor’s face gangsta style.

“Really?” Conor kept one eye on the gun and the other on the buddy. Was the friend armed? His eyes adjusted to the fading light. The pair pressed closer. They sported matching tattoos on their necks, some sort of spider encircled with words in Spanish. Great. Gang tats. He’d pissed off a junior gangbanger, and the irony of all ironies had to be that this little scumbag was Conor’s alibi for Zoe’s disappearance.

Way. To. Go.

“I don’t have your dog,” Conor said.