East Compton Boulevard, an hour later. Kitty sat in the doorway of a dry cleaner’s, having been moved on from two other places. “Get the fuck out of here,” the owner of an auto parts store had said, and took a swipe at her with his broom. She sat with her knees drawn to her chest. The blanket concealed her partial nakedness, as well as the bumps and scrapes on her arms and shoulders. Kitty raked her hair across the more serious wound in her head, and tried to snag the attention of people as they walked by.

Finally, she did—a Black teen with a spring in his step and a red hoodie tied around his waist by its sleeves.

“Hey, man.”

“What’s up?”

“I’m in a bad place, that’s what’s up. I’ll trade you this two-hundred-dollar skateboard for that hoodie and ten dollars cash.”

“Shit. You can’t get much crank for ten dollars.”

“I’m not after crank. I just need enough for a bottle of water and bus fare.”

“You steal that board?”

“No. It’s mine.”

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“Do a trick.”

“I’m not your fucking dog. You want to do this, or not?”

He did.

The police could detain Johan. They could interrogate him, obtain warrants to search his home, his car, Jink’s Warehouse. Assuming they took Kitty at her word, they could cross-examine Xander and Ruben until one of them slipped up. But would any investigation get that far? Johan would have his bases covered and the sharpest lawyers in Southern California. The question was not could the police charge him, with his elite white connections and solid alibis, but for how long could—or would—they protect Kitty?

She rode the bus north, pondering the best course of action. Other than hiding under a rock for the rest of her life, there appeared only two ways out of this: for Johan to be imprisoned, or killed, and neither seemed likely to happen anytime soon.

Her head started to bleed again. She dabbed at it with the sleeve of the hoodie. Red on red. She needed a doctor. Even better: a hot shower and sleep. Not at her apartment, though. Johan would have eyes on the place. (She imagined Ruben parked on her sofa, eating her snacks, watching her TV.) Her phone was there. Her wallet, too. Even if she ran, how far could she get without a photo ID and a bank card? And if she borrowed some cash, or stole it, where would she go? Louisville—home—was out of the question. She couldn’t put her family in danger.

“Never,” she whispered.

Kitty looked out the window. She didn’t see the Mustang, but it prowled along beside her nonetheless, emphasizing what she already knew: that Johan had to be stopped.

But how?