He had a tendency to cockiness that made her nervous. This time, he caught her eye and winked, an absolute violation of common sense and every rule. She swept her eyes blankly on and decided to tell Jim, once and for all, that she didn’t want Mark to bank for her. No matter what.

Two drunks were arguing ferociously near the beer stand, drinks sloshing as they gestured. One of them demonstrated high sticking with his forearm. Robby ducked the struggle and continued on. Ahead, a weaving couple of teenaged girls giggled and gossiped in line. The brunette had an open purse and a vacant look, but Robby decided against it; the blonde looked too intelligent and only a little drunk. She passed them up for a party of business people still dressed in wrinkled, beer-spotted suits and lightened two pockets and two purses, a heavy enough haul to make her immediately turn and scan for Mark.

He caught the signal and started in her direction, a loose easy walk. He’d lost most of his stiffness over the last year, but there was something about him, something that made cops’ eyes turn in his direction even when he was innocent. He was a bad choice for bank, she felt it in her bones. Something would happen.

He brushed past her, and she passed two of the wallets over—Jim could have taken three without breaking a sweat, but two was the limit of Mark’s agility—and watched helplessly as Mark fumbled the second one. It fell to the concrete floor with a meaty smack that sounded like a bomb explosion to her. As Mark bent down for it, she kicked it with the side of her foot and sent it sailing away into the crowd. When he straightened up, she fixed him with a glare.

He knew better than to try to pick it up. He’d always known better than that.

He mouthed, Sorry, and moved on. She blew out a shaking breath and decided to take a break. The hockey game sounded as if it had reached a fever pitch of excitement. She ambled through a short dark tunnel and paused on the crowded landing, thinking about lifting the wallet that stuck half-out of the blue jeans in front of her.

A hand grabbed her arm. She looked up into Jim’s chalk-pale face.

“What’s wrong?” She had to shout to be heard over the screaming of the crowd. He pointed. Directly down the stairs, toward the ice.

A man wrapped in white fire staggered down concrete steps, arms waving helplessly. People bobbed backward from him in waves. He missed a step and fell face forward, sliding down several risers and leaving a trail of burning flesh behind.