Because if Sara died, reasonable minds might doubt that Jason French had killed Tyra Norris. Cops might look elsewhere.

But why did that matter?

Because X wanted Jason at Lanesworth.

Why?

Unknown. Unknowable.

What made Jason so important to a man like X?

Good question.

Just how important was he?

That was the rubber on the road.

An hour later, Reece was behind the wheel of a jet-black BMW, peering through darkened grounds at the house where Gibson French lived with his parents. The structure was set back from the road, but undoubtedly had a high-end security system. Plus, the father was a cop, and Reece hated cops.

Ticktock, motherfucker …

Reece was hard on himself, but things were moving fast, and he had to move faster.

How long until X learned that Reece was still breathing?

Not long.

For a moment more, Reece stared up at the big house, then U-turned across the road, heading for the poor side of things. That’s where Gibson’s friend lived.

He was the weak spot.

That’s how it would happen.

Chance spent the night alone and wide awake, most of it cross-legged on an old blanket, huddled where the bedside lamp spilled yellow light in a broken circle. Magazines littered the blanket around him—more war porn—but Chance couldn’t look past the photograph cupped in the palms of his hands.

“Fuck you, Martinez.”

He blinked away a tear, but the photograph remained: Tyra Norris, or what was left of her. He could only see her in parts. The ruin of her body was so … immediate. It hadn’t happened on a battlefield far away or in some distant, other city. Whoever did this to Tyra was in the here and now.

“Goddamn it.”

Chance sniffed loudly, and scrubbed his face with a sleeve. Martinez had come to the house twice, and the first time, Chance had claimed to be a minor whose mother should be there for him to answer questions. The second time was different. Late at night, a shit-slick grin on his face.

You’re eighteen, kid. I checked.

Then he’d started with the questions about Gibby, easy ones at first, things like places and timing, and when did Chance last see his best friend. Eventually, he’d asked about Gibby’s brother, killed in the war.

Did Gibby view the body? How did that make him feel?

Does he blame the government?

Society?

Tell me about the funeral …

He had a real hard-on for Jason, though, and got there pretty quick.

Does he talk about him?

Admire him?

Does Gibby want to go to war like Jason?

How often do they speak? See each other?

I know he’s been to Lanesworth …

Questions like that came hard and fast. Ten minutes’ worth, at least. Then the questions got dark.

Does your friend like dirty movies?

Those flat, cop eyes.

Magazines, I bet. The really nasty ones.

Are girls afraid of him?