Tyra paid the man, then made a peace sign, and pushed the door with her ass, liking how he watched, liking the buzz. From there, the drive was groovy. She didn’t care about Jason French—the fucker—her job, or her parents. Traffic thickened, but the music was good, and warm air brushed her face. By the time she reached the neighborhood, she was tapping the wheel and singing with the radio. On the final block, she slowed, too high and happy to notice the parked car or the men inside it. In the driveway, she got out of the Volkswagen, already practicing.

Am I high? Of course I’m not high …

Come on, Sara. Don’t be silly …

“Excuse me, miss?” A man’s voice broke Tyra’s concentration. He stood to the side of the driveway, looking apologetic in khakis, a button-down, and a bow tie. He said, “I’m sorry to bother you.” And Tyra thought: Sweet old man, somebody’s husband.

“Yes?”

He stepped onto the driveway. “Would you be good enough to look at a photograph for me?”

“I don’t understand.”

“It will take but a moment.”

The situation was strange, but the weed had been pretty strong. She thought, Okay, whatever … The photograph he showed her was small, but the streetlamp was close and bright enough.

“That’s Jason French.” Her mouth hardened into lines of sudden suspicion. “Did he send you? You can tell that son of a bitch he had his chance. Tell him he’s an asshole and he can go fuck himself. You can tell him that from me.”

“And you are…?”

“Tyra. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

The small man nodded once, ignoring the anger, pocketing the photo. “Earlier, I saw a blond woman enter your condominium. Is she your roommate?”

Tyra squinted, confused by the questions and the fuzz in her head. “I don’t understand. What…?”

“Five-seven. Slender.”

Tyra started to nod, but something was off with the old man and his moment, and not because of the pot. His eyes didn’t match the clothing—they were too knowing—and he wasn’t that old, either, just seamed at the eyes, the corners of his mouth. “I’m going inside, now. My friend is waiting.”

“Sara, yes. She’s lovely. Really, truly … lovely.”

“How do you know her name?”

He shrugged, and Tyra stepped back, suddenly afraid. “Don’t come near me.”

“I won’t take a step.”

“Mister, I will scream.”

Showing small teeth, the man gestured with his right hand. “If you will look behind you.”

Tyra turned, and saw a second man, a giant with a wide face and shaggy hair. Behind him, the street was empty, and he knew it, too. The grin. The bright eyes. She thought, Mistake, misunderstanding.

The smaller man nodded as if sympathetic. “It’s best if you don’t fight.”