What about animals? Does he like to kill things?

Martinez went down so many twisty dark holes Chance decided he must be screwed in the head to think of those questions.

Is your friend into ropes and knots?

What about chains?

How about in the locker room? Does he pay a little too much attention in the shower?

Does he do drugs?

What about booze?

Let’s go back to the pornography question …

Turned out they were still on the easy part. When Martinez finally lost his cool, he’d pulled out a picture of Tyra’s murdered corpse, and made Chance look at it. Closer, he’d ordered, his hand on the back of Chance’s neck. Get up in there, good and close. You see that? You freaking taste that?

It took the partner to pull him off.

When dawn came at last, it gathered like a fist, and Chance pulled himself into the shower, water beating down as he imagined mountain roads and a girl on the back of a brand-new motorcycle, maybe someone as pretty as Becky.

Why couldn’t it happen like that?

He wasn’t ugly.

He wasn’t stupid.

Out of the shower, Chance twisted a towel around his waist, thinking he would never have that new motorcycle. His mother was pulling two-and-a-half shifts, all night and most of the day. She needed a new car. They were two months down on the rent, but she wouldn’t let him work until the schooling was done …

Chance pulled on jeans, and got a comb through his hair before he heard music, a hint of it from down the hallway. He wasn’t imagining it. His mother had come home early, he thought. A forgotten something. An unexpected shift change. Either way, it was all for the good. He’d make her breakfast, and put her to bed.

But that’s not how it went down.

The man in the living room chair looked like Jason said he would: narrow and seamed, with eyes too old for such a bland face. That was the first thing Chance saw. Second was the gun.

“This will be easier,” the man said, “if you do not scream.”

Chance closed his mouth; couldn’t feel his fingers.

“Good boy. Sit down.” He gestured with the gun, and Chance sank into a chair. “Tell me your name,” he said.

Chance told him his name.

“There is no car in the driveway. Is there anyone else in the house? Mother? Father?”

“Mother. At work.”

“Does she come home during the day?”

Chance couldn’t answer. His mind had stopped working.

“Yes or no,” the man said. “It’s a simple question.”

“One o’clock. She comes home at one.”

“What about housekeepers? Friends?”

“Just me.”

Grunting once, the man produced a pair of handcuffs, and held them out. “If you would, please. Behind your back.”