He grabbed me around the waist, catching me off guard. I twisted, but he was already folding me inside. The back of my head smacked into the roof and I let out a yelp, louder than the tap warranted. No one around us even paused. A drama queen, making a big deal out of a knock on the head. And if my boyfriend seemed a bit rough? Not their business.

As I hit the seat, I scrambled around, hands balling into fists, Jaz’s gun pointed at me.

“Hope. Please.”

I considered my options and saw none I liked.

In the front seat, Sonny grabbed his hair and pulled it off. A wig. He tossed it onto the seat and ran his hands through his hair—dark and wavy.

The light ahead turned yellow. Sonny slowed, earning a honk from the driver behind. As we waited, he rubbed his hands over his face, brisk and hard, as if he had indeed been sleeping. I glanced at Jaz, but he was looking out the side window.

The car started forward again. Gripping the wheel were hands as dark as Jaz’s. I blinked and looked out the window, expected to see the sun gone again, but it still blazed brightly.

I strained to get a look at Sonny in the mirror. For a moment, I saw nothing. Then he moved and I bit back a gasp. It looked like Jaz’s face in the mirror. At the next light, he turned, and I saw that the dark eyes weren’t as deep-set as Jaz’s, the lips fuller, mouth not as wide, the face thinner, and somber in a way that was as “Sonny” as Jaz’s infectious grin was him.

“Hope, meet Jason,” Jaz said, startling me. “My little brother. He prefers Sonny, though, so you can stick with that.”

Sonny raked his fingers through his hair again. “I hate it when it’s this short. And I swear it feels like straw. Dye it blond. Dye it back. Can’t be good.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch. It’s going to be a lot shorter soon.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Jaz looked at me. “Hair’s a problem. Small changes in color, texture, length, we can manage. Otherwise, it’s dye and wigs. Build is even worse. Again, small changes only. Lifts, posture, clothing, it can only do so much. If a guy is five foot eight? Six foot four? Forget it. Luckily, people aren’t that observant. If you’re off by an inch or ten pounds, no one notices.”

All this he relayed as conversationally as he’d tell me how he got to work each morning. When he finished, he eased back in his seat and scratched his jaw, gaze slanted my way, expectant.

He did it. They did. Killed them. Their gang. Their friends. And now he sat here, chattering away, same old Jaz.