Once Jasmine had dropped Stacy at the hospital to make the necessary arrangements, they’d driven over to the First Western. First, they’d sent in Rico on a commando-style mission to slide the postcard under the Andersons’ door.

Then they’d waited.

Tom’s heart had lurched in his chest when he saw his mom and dad emerge from the hotel ten minutes later. They jumped in the back of a yellow cab and drove away. ‘We did it,’ he breathed. ‘Marcie can’t get them.’

‘For now,’ Jasmine added. ‘I don’t have no mom or dad, Tom. But I want you to hang on to yours.’ She tapped her hip where the gun was hidden. ‘Let’s go. Ric, wait in the car.’

‘Aw, Jas,’ Rico complained. But she gave him a stern look. He made a face and nodded reluctantly.

Quickly, quietly, Tom and Jasmine walked towards the hotel’s reception …

Ping.

The elevator’s electronic chime jarred Tom from his memories. They had reached the thirtieth floor.

‘Let’s finish this,’ muttered Jasmine.

The corridor was quiet. Jasmine soon picked the lock on room 3003, and Tom followed her inside.

The moment he breathed in the still-lingering smell of his dad’s deodorant, a wave of almost unbearable homesickness overcame him. His mom’s clothes lay strewn on a chair. The same suitcases they’d taken to Seattle, where the whole nightmare had begun, were stowed beside the TV in the corner of the room.

Tom felt hot and flushed, and opened the window a fraction. Then he sat heavily on the king-sized bed.

Jas joined him, saying nothing. She took the gun from her pocket and turned it around in her hands.

‘You ever use that on someone?’ he asked.

‘You kidding me?’ She shot him a dark look. ‘How’s that shoulder of yours?’

‘Hurts like hell.’

‘Just a scratch, Tommy-boy. Just a scratch. You ever seen someone shot dead?’ Jasmine’s voice trembled a fraction. ‘I did once. This guy I knew? He was shot in the guts … He was kind of crazy, but he had this great smile, you know …’ She sighed softly. ‘So much blood when he got shot. Everywhere. We couldn’t stop it. We watched him die for hours and hours, too scared to do jack shit, too scared to go to the cops …’

‘Who shot him?’ Tom murmured.