Dedication

To Kathy, as always.

Epigraph

There is nothing more terrifying than a broken human being.

—Bill Coffin

CHAPTER ONE

People cross me at their peril. I don’t have the luxury of ignoring open cruelty, because it makes me angry. I don’t turn into a green monster and start throwing pickup trucks around, but when I’m truly angry the amygdala buried in the folds of my brain starts whooping like twin howler monkeys, overwhelming the inner Vulcan, if you will, of my frontal cortex, and then I tend to do rash, inappropriate things.

Like now.

BOBBY BONAROO IS just starting to wake up. His breathing has quickened, and his jaw shifts as if he is about to open his mouth. Instead, he opens his eyes and looks straight up at me, standing over him. “Wha?” he manages. “Wha the fuh?”

“Morning,” I say brightly. I’ve clamped a utility work light to a nearby railing and turned it to face downward so it doesn’t shine directly into Bobby’s face, but it casts enough light so we can see each other. “Was last night good for you? ’Cause I had a lot of fun.”

He frowns slightly, like we’ve run into each other at Kroger and he can’t quite remember my name. I’m wearing a black tactical jumpsuit, very different from the tight skirt and low-cut top I was wearing last night, so his confusion is understandable. Then he takes in my long red hair and his eyes widen. “You,” he says.

“Me,” I say.

He glances around, disoriented but recovering nicely. I can almost read his mind, not that Bobby Bonaroo is a hard nut to crack: what happened, why does my head hurt, why am I lying on my back, why is the redhead from last night smiling at me? My guess is the women Bobby dates don’t tend to smile much the morning after.

“It was Xanax in your scotch,” I say. “The dizziness, headache, memory loss? Xanax.”

“What the fuck?” Bobby Bonaroo says, and his voice echoes in the vast space around us. He tries to sit up, then tries to move his arms, but he can only lift his hands an inch or so. The chain binding him rattles and clinks, and his eyes widen further. He manages to lift his head enough to look down at his hands and see the manacles on his wrists. The chain that connects his wrists runs beneath him, under the small of his back. There is a rope around his chest, snug beneath his armpits. Bobby looks further down to see his legs are wrapped with duct tape. He starts jerking back and forth, trying to get loose. “Get me the fuck out of this!” he shouts.

I crouch down so he can see my face more clearly. “Do you like Tom Hanks movies?” I ask politely.