Becca’s hostility didn’t faze him. “You have a flat tire. I didn’t want you getting on the freeway.”

“Am I getting a ticket?” Becca asked.

“No. I thought you might need assistance.”

“I know how to change a tire,” Becca said.

From the time she was old enough to understand simple instructions, her father insisted she learn life skills. “You cannot rely on a man. You have to make your own way in the world.” Because of Rafi, Becca was capable of doing most basic automotive repairs and light plumbing.

“I have a spare in the trunk. Is it okay if I get out of the car?” Becca said.

“Of course,” he’d said, stepping aside while she opened the door and climbed out. Christian stood there, watching as she grabbed the jack from her trunk and lifted the car to the appropriate height.

“It’s late, and there have been several assaults in this neighborhood. Mind if my partner and I stick around while you change it?”

“Whatever. That’s fine,” Becca said, expertly removing the damaged tire and replacing the spare. Christian tried to make chitchat, but Becca wasn’t interested. Her brother’s illness and the aftermath of his breakdown gave Becca a perspective on law enforcement that wasn’t exactly positive. The police treated her family like they were criminals, like they’d done something wrong. Once the tire was changed, Becca thanked him, gave a half-hearted wave, and drove away. She didn’t think twice about the incident, focusing on her upcoming final exams.

A month later, Becca graduated from USC with honors. After a family dinner, her roommates dragged her out to the Short Stop to celebrate. The strange black box dive bar in Echo Park used to be a cop hangout but by then it was just another brick and wood bar college students and neighborhood locals flocked to. That night Becca decided to let loose. She wanted to slip off the burden of responsibility. For the first time in her life there were no deadlines looming over her. Nothing until she started grad school in the fall. The freedom was simultaneously exhilarating and disconcerting.

At some point in the evening, she saw a familiar face drinking at the bar. She recognized him instantly. He was a few years older than Becca, maybe twenty-five, tan, with jet black hair, and the kind of build that suggested long hours spent in the gym. He had an innate confidence, one of those guys who coasted by on good looks, the type of man who’d embraced his privilege at every turn. She imagined the badge only made things easier. He caught her staring and smiled, raising his shot glass in a mock toast.