“Bring him in…” I couldn’t believe it. “Listen to yourself!”

“Safely, Gibby. Bring him in safely. Tyra’s death was … hard. Cops aren’t taking it well. Emotions are running high.”

“Jason didn’t kill her.”

“But they were sexually involved. They fought in public, and it got violent. She pulled a gun…”

“I know. I was there.”

My father froze. Three full seconds. “Please tell me that’s not true.”

“Yeah, I was there. She was out-of-her-mind drunk.”

“Did she threaten you?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Motive. It’s the first thing cops look for.”

“You keep talking like you’re not the cops.”

“Do you know where Jason is or not?”

“I don’t.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“I’m not,” I said, but was. Jason had a safe full of guns and cash. What would happen if the cops found it?

Prison, I thought.

No question.

My father threatened and begged, but I had nothing else to say; and when he left, he was furious about that silence. I gave him a thirty count, then rolled my car to the bottom of the driveway.

Ten minutes to the city line.

Another twenty to my brother.

I drove fast, and thought of Tyra, not dead on a slab, but as I’d seen her at the lake, naked and unashamed and laughing.

I didn’t see the headlights behind me.

I didn’t even care.

When I reached the Pagans’ private club, I parked at the curb, and jogged for the door. No guard. No people or music. Inside, it was quiet enough to hear the argument upstairs, the raised voices and the clank of metal on metal. Halfway up the stairwell, I recognized Jason’s voice. “I hear what you’re saying, Darius. But it is what it is. I’m out of here, and all of this goes with me.”

A mumbled response.

I climbed higher.

“No.” Jason again. “That was not our deal.”

“You’re not taking the guns or the cash…”

At the landing, I risked a glance through the door. Guns were stacked on the bed, others still in the safe. Jason was there, too, raking out cash as three bikers crowded around him, two with pistols wedged in their jeans. The oldest one spoke—Darius, I thought. He looked familiar. The muttonchops. The white in his hair. “I’m not messing around, Jason. The cops want you. That’s tough, but it happens. You can leave right now, and none of us will say a word. But the guns stay. Same with that money.”

“You’ve had your cut.” Jason dropped bricks of cash on the bed, and went back for the duffel that held the rest. “The guns are mine. Cash, too.”