Walking through the club reminded me of the first time I’d cut through with Bianca. Now, alone, that unnatural hush and shadowy darkness was even worse.

I felt my way around the pool tables as I circumvented the dance floor. Ahead I saw those floor-side tables where we’d partied after the sweet sixteen heist. I stared at the chair where I’d sat on Jaz’s lap.

If Jaz hadn’t disappeared, would last night have been different? No. If Karl and I had managed to find another route past the anger, I’d be here now worrying about what to tell Jaz.

Had I used him?

In a way, yes. I’d seized a genuine attraction to try and get over Karl.

But that attraction…Part of me wanted to say it was purely physical. He was young and hot and interested—the perfect recipe for chemistry. To admit there’d been more felt like a disloyalty to Karl, that buried romantic in me wanting to say that Karl was everything I’d ever wanted.

But with Jaz there had been a connection. Had there been no Karl, then I think we could have had something.

“How did you get in here?”

I jumped at Bianca’s voice. But when I spun around, I couldn’t see her.

“I asked you a question,” Bianca said.

Her voice was sharp. I felt her anger ripple through me as I peered around the club.

“You have five seconds to tell me who the hell you are, or I’m escorting you to the front door. After I call security.”

A man’s laugh, then a voice, unfamiliar. “There’s no one here but us, Bianca.”

“Do I know you?”

“Don’t you?”

The voice grew closer, and a dash of fear seeped into her anger. I closed my eyes and circled, stopping when I felt a mental twinge that said “this way to the chaos buffet.” When I opened my eyes, I was staring at the door to the stockrooms.

“What do you want?” Bianca said.

“Uh-uh. Keep your distance, babe. Third-degree burns aren’t on my agenda.”

I slid my gun from my purse and hurried to the hall door.

HOPE TASTE OF DEATH

HOPE

TASTE OF DEATH

I slowly turned the knob, then opened the door a crack. Light flooded out. I listened. All was silent. A peek through. Four doors, all closed. If I remembered right, the first two were for janitorial supplies and technical equipment, and the last pair for bar stock.

“One last time,” Bianca said. “What do you want?”

Her voice echoed, simultaneously heard in my head and, muffled, from down the hall. I raised my gun and took a slow step forward, testing the floor against my shoes, seeing how easily they’d squeak on the painted concrete.

“I want you to take a message to your boss,” the man said. “From Benicio Cortez.”