Chance fell to his knees, blood dripping. He climbed slowly to his feet, still no expression. Heatstroke, I thought. Concussion. The little man hit him again, twice with a fist and again with the gun. Chance fell into a shelf; metal clattered. The barrel swung in—back of the head—and Chance went all the way down, every cord cut. The little man kicked him in the ribs, the face, then went back with his other foot, kicking and grunting as all that regret and anger found a place to go. “Not! My! Fault!”

“Leave him alone!” I yelled. “Damn it! Leave him alone!”

“Shut up or you’re next!”

“Chance!” I beat on the mesh, but nothing changed.

The guy had a lot of anger left.

A lot of regret, too.

Afterward, Reece stared into the mirror, sweat on his face, still breathing hard. There was a glitter in his eyes he’d never seen, a shiftiness that looked dangerous. He was moving too fast. That was the problem.

“Goddamn it, X.”

Had he ruined the girl?

It was the only question that mattered. He’d risked everything for her. He’d looked for so many years, been so patient …

“What patience?”

He punched the wall, the look on his face a sarcastic, angry sneer. He was supposed to give her time to settle, months, if need be. He’d been ready to wait that long, or even longer.

It was X’s fault.

X was in his head.

Reece pulled at his hair, then forced a deep breath.

Two sides.

Every coin.

Lonnie Ward was dead. No real loss; he’d been a convenience. And X would die in hours. Once he was gone, there’d be no one left alive who knew Reece or what he was or where he lived. The thought was like a breath of air. Reece had money. He was still young. Maybe a fresh start was the way to go. Kill the boys. Kill the girl.

A clean slate.

Reece closed his eyes, and tried to see the future. It was cloudy, and cloudy was frustrating. So he went to his secret place, and watched the girl. She’d crawled under the bed, and pulled the blanket with her. Reece couldn’t see much. He chewed his lip until it bled. The taste of it surprised him.

He didn’t like that she was under the bed; he couldn’t see. How long would she stay there, and how would she be when she came out, ruined or resigned or something else?

Maybe she did not have to die.

Or maybe she did …

For me, it was all about Chance. I’d dragged him into the cage as the man who’d beaten him so badly stood by and watched, his chest heaving as sweat ran down his neck. He’d said nothing at all, just locked the cage, and left.

Son of a bitch.

Motherfucker.