But the I’ve had a hard time moving past it, myself was pure, pointed fabrication. Owen knew what it meant to have a hard time moving past Marcelline. He knew exactly how it felt to not make much progress toward not thinking about her, in wondering if she was a conniving bitch who had found him disposable. And for nothing more than money. He knew what that feeling would sound like in someone’s voice. But it wasn’t there in Jonathan’s message. They were not brothers in disillusion, no matter that the man thought it was a coin for him to spend.

Owen had only a few images of Jonathan in his mind: the blandly handsome, stoic mask at the handshake; the hooded interest in the formalities of the exchange, trying not to look on high alert, as if he weren’t counting the number of steps to the exits.

But the image of him prying Marcelline’s hand off her neck, her mouth in a shocked little O and the quick lurch of blood as he pinned her arms down, that was vivid. Had Jonathan been helping her or hurting her? He’d looked over at Owen, unreadable.

There were things yet to know.

Goddamn, the Anningers’ silly wants were so boring.

Owen watched across a lane of parking spaces. Beyond the chain-link was a line of boys daring one another into the deep end, nudging, close to shoving, heads swiveling to take the measure of the others. Everything they knew about the world was obvious in the curve of their spines and the tension in their shoulders. But in that half-naked lineup you couldn’t tell what they would become. The short, skinny little twerp might be due for a growth spurt. The fat one might discover offensive tackle or physics. The one who stood a half step away, straight as a soldier, might find luck and opportunity that took him to places he’d never imagined but cost him his soul.

Owen took up his phone and tapped into the service’s message details for Jonathan’s number. He wouldn’t pick up. Of course he wouldn’t. He’d want to hear Owen’s tone on his own turf. He’d want to analyze Owen’s words and inflections to know whether to destroy his disposable phone or to roll the dice and take his next turn elsewhere.

Owen put his hand over the stain on the steering wheel’s leather and squeezed. Marcelline.

“Jonathan. Good to hear from you. Of course, I remember you. Who forgets something like that? You’re right in that there’s still interest and much to talk about. But I think it’s better, for everyone, if we talk in person. If you give me twenty-four hours, I can be wherever you’d like. You say where, you say when, I’ll make it happen. Text me the particulars, if that’s easier.”