Mr. Mason took out two keys. Put both of them in the holes and turned them. A second click and the gate pulled back.

  Safe-deposit boxes covered the walls ceiling to floor. A long table in the center. Cameras in every corner.

  “Wait here, please.” Mr. Mason put his hand on Ben’s arm.

  Mr. Mason walked to a second door on the far side of the room. He tipped his head up at the camera, then typed in a code. He waited, then typed in a second one. The keypad chirped, the door slid back.

  Mr. Mason motioned Ben forward. “Your uncle’s box is located in here.”

  Only a dozen boxes, all varying sizes, occupied the space of the smaller room. The table in the new room was shorter and had a steel chair where someone could sit. Ben started to take out the piece of paper to give Mr. Mason the box number, but he was already there with a key in hand.

  “How did you know which one was his?”

  “I told you. We were friends.” A small bead of sweat trickled down Mr. Mason’s temple and landed on his shoulder. His expensive suit drank it up.

  “I don’t suppose you know what’s in there, do you?”

  “No, sorry. I don’t.” He inserted his key into the top lock and turned it. “Now yours.” Ben dug the key from his pocket. He did the same with the lock on the bottom part of the door. There was a snick, and the lockbox opened. Mr. Mason pulled the container from its resting place. “Take your time. I’ll wait outside until you’re done.” He set the container on the table. Scar tissue formed a perfect circle no bigger than a dime with what appeared to be a snake swallowing its tail on the webbing between Mr. Mason’s thumb and finger.

  “What’s that?”

  “What?”

  Ben tipped his head, indicating the mark. “My uncle had a mark that looked sort of like that.”

  Mr. Mason pulled back his hand and rubbed the puckered flesh. “It’s just a scar.”

  Then why was it in the same location Uncle Greg’s had been?

  “I’ll wait for you in the other room. Just let me know when you’re finished, and I’ll see you out.” Mr. Mason exited the vault.

  Ben turned his attention on the box. Now that he had it, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was inside. But it had to be important. Otherwise, his uncle wouldn’t have felt a need to hide it. Safe deposit boxes in a bank like this weren’t cheap, so he’d gone without a lot over the years to protect the contents. And there were so many things the man could have used the money on. Food for one. The light bill another. Yet he’d scraped by to seal away these secrets and keep them from prying eyes.

  Why?

  With dread and anticipation warring in his gut, Ben opened the box.

  Marcel closed the lid on the trashcan.

  His neighbor Lily Jenson pulled into her driveway on the right. Stitching showed through the rubber of the van’s tires. A gray film of oil covered the back. The lack of a stain on the driveway meant the leak was either new or slow enough it burned away before it could drip.

  She got out.

  Red blotched her cheeks and swollen eyes. She hurried inside the house. Her kids would get off the bus in a half-hour. By then, she’d have washed her face with cold water, and the evidence of her crying would be gone.

  Anything left, she’d blame it on allergies.

  Across the street, the good Dr. kissed his wife goodbye. He always took a thirty-six-hour shift from Tuesday to Wednesday at the ER so he would have the weekend free. Tonight, when the rest of the neighborhood slept, the man in the Corvette would show up, and Mrs. Fields would leave with him.

  She’d take a taxi home by noon the next day. Unless she had a lunch date with a friend. Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t. She never kept a schedule for Marcel to follow.

  The young man next door to the Dr.’s house came out of the garage and got in his car. His wife chased after him. They argued for a moment. Then he pulled out and was gone.

  She took out her cell phone and went back inside.

  Marcel returned to his porch and picked up his cane, where he left it by the swing. Age was a sick bitch who couldn’t be reasoned with. Eventually, she handed you over to her equally cruel brother. Although sometimes death skipped the chain of command and took what he wanted when he wanted it.

  And it always seemed he wanted the best. The most beautiful. The most kind.

  Alexander had been all those things and so much more.

  Marcel could have blamed himself. There had been a dozen different scenarios he could have taken to change Alexander’s fate. They could have walked, ridden the train, anything to alter the moment Alexander had gotten behind the wheel of the car with the bomb wired under the seat.

  But guilt slowed a man down, made him second-guess his choices, made him question his motivations. All things Marcel lost use for a long time ago.

  In the House of the Sicarii, there was no such luxury. A lesson children learned early on. One of many which would cost them their lives if they failed to understand it the first time.

  And even if Marcel had taken another path, Ivan Annanstein would have killed Alexander. Ivan had had no honor or patience—only vengeance. That alone was enough to drive the man to the end of the universe in search of what he thought he was owed: the location of a wife who wasn’t faithful so he could punish her.

  Alexander had helped Lorelle hide, and he’d refused to tell Ivan where.

  A choice he’d made and one Marcel had honored.

  But a choice that also cost Alexander his life.

  At least the car bomb had been quick, and Alexander had been happy in the last moment.

  “You know I love you, right?”

  “So you say.”

  “I mean it.”

  The ghost of Alexander’s lips on Marcel’s left no scars, but the memory was twice as deep. Unlike his flesh, which healed, the emptiness left behind never would. But he welcomed it because it reassured him he had known what it was like to be loved, and he’d given it back in the only way he’d known how.

  Marcel didn’t even have tears to shed. Those too were lost the first few nights in his House where he’d been forged from the skinny, underfed boy, sold by desperate parents. The girl who slept on the bunk below him had been a year older and a six-month veteran. Marcel woke her up, sobbing into his pillow. She sat with him. Told him to forget about crying. It took everything and gave no satisfaction.

  She fell to her death while climbing the rock face along with three other children.

  None of them cried out as they plummeted to the ground. Like the tears, the ability to fear had been stripped from them. When Marcel thought about it, he couldn’t be sure anything human had been left behind.

  But that was then, and today there was only now.

  Marcel started to open the storm door.

  Sam Waters followed the sidewalk with his head down. He didn’t stop by the mailbox as he came up his driveway. He didn’t pick up the UPS package left by the front door. He fumbled with his key. His trembling hands made it jump around the lock. Once he had the door open, he went in but left his key behind.

  A clatter came from inside the garage.

  Marcel went to the back corner of the wrap around porch of his house.

  Sam exited the garage through the rear door with a rope slung over his shoulder.

  Marcel took out a cigarette. He lit it. He took a drag.

  The boy went into his backyard and dumped the rope by a tree. He returned to his house through the garage.

  Marcel waited.

  The sliding glass door opened.

  Sam carried a kitchen chair to the tree where he’d left the rope. He picked it up and climbed on the chair. He had to stand on his tippy toes to reach the branch.

  Marcel leaned against the post. The smoky breath he exhaled broke apart in the breeze.

  Sam tossed the rope over the limb. He wiped his eyes. His nose. He struggled to make a knot. What he wound up with was sloppy, but it was unlikely to come loose. Marcel had seen worse knots hold up much larger men.

  The boy tied a loop in the end.

  Now a bad noose was another story. There were few things as ugly as a man strangling to death. His purpling flesh, bulging eyes, swelling tongue. How he’d claw at the rope cinching his throat. A slow death. Sometimes taking minutes.

  And a man who died slow had more than enough time to relive his life and realize he didn’t want to die as much as he thought he did.

  Marcel looked at his watch; three-thirty. Sam’s sisters had ballet practice today. The oldest would be with their dad, shopping for a dress to wear to the school dance next month. Odd, that. It would seem like a little girl would rather shop with her mother. But Becka had always gravitated toward her father. The other three to their mother.

  Sam just seemed to drift in between. Like being the middle child had left him in some sort of limbo.

  Marcel took another drag on his cigarette.

  The boy finished his poor excuse for a noose.

  By the time his parents got home, he’d be in rigor, and they’d have to cut him down. The cops would sit out on the lawn all night. The newspapers might even take an interest.

  They’d want to interview the neighbors.

  There were few professionals more annoying than cops, but reporters were at the top of Marcel’s list. He snuffed out his cigarette, slipped the butt into his pocket, and made his way down the steps.

  He leaned on his cane as he crossed the yard.

  Sam started to put the rope around his neck.

  Marcel stopped at the split rail fence dividing the properties. “You.”

  Sam startled, and the chair wobbled under his feet.

  “Come help an old man move some boxes.”

  “What?” The boy scrubbed the tears from his eyes.

  “I have boxes. In my garage. I will give you twenty dollars to come move them.”

  “You want me to come move boxes?”

  “Yes. If you do not mind. Like I said, I will pay you twenty dollars. It will not take long. Then you can go back to whatever game you are playing.”

  Sam looked at the rope in his hands.

  “Come.” Marcel waved his cane at Sam. “I am in hurry. It will not take long. I promise.”

  Sam stood there, face tear-streaked, staring.

  Marcel waved at him again. “Come, come.”

  Sam inched to the edge of the chair, lowered one foot to the ground, then the other. He waded through the hostas and climbed through the fence. “Here,” Marcel motioned to his house. “I show you where I want them to go.” He walked back across his yard, favoring his bad leg. It wasn’t until Marcel reached the back door that he tilted his head, angling his good eye and ear toward Sam. Grass rustled, fabric swished.

  Sam’s reflection appeared in the glass. Marcel opened the door. Sam didn’t follow.

  “Boxes are in garage,” Marcel said.

  Sam flicked a look past Marcel and into the living room. “You’re not some weirdo, are you?”

  “Weirdo?”

  “Yeah, a weirdo.”

  Marcel scratched his head. “I do not think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I am not sure what you mean by weird-o.”

  “Like one of those guys who likes kids.”

  Likes kids? It dawned on Marcel what Sam meant. “No. I am not a weird-o. I am an old man with a cane, who has boxes that need to be moved, and twenty dollars to give you to move the boxes.”

  The boy’s mouth thinned out. “All right, but if you try anything, I’m going to kick your dentures in.”

  Marcel laughed. “Come. I will show you where the boxes are at.”

  Sam followed the man into the house. He didn’t really think the guy was a pervert. If he was one of those kinds of people, Sam was sure he could make good on his word. If nothing else, he could outrun him.

  The way the old man leaned on his cane and favored his leg, it must have been pretty messed up. Not that he wasn’t messed up all over. Scars completely covered one side of his face. The webbing so thick it looked like wads of stretched chewing gum plastered to his skin. On that same side, his ear was gone, and his thick salt-and-pepper hair had been reduced to thin fuzz.

  Whatever happened to Sam’s neighbor, it must have been really bad because he was also missing fingers. The scars on his hand stretched up his arm and disappeared under the sleeve of his button-up. There didn’t appear to be an inch of exposed skin that wasn’t mottled.

  When Sam was younger, he used to think the guy was some sort of monster. Then after a while, the shock of his appearance wore off. Then the old man became a background figure he’d never paid attention to, and half the time forgot he lived next door.

  Following the guy through his living room changed everything. And it wasn’t an up-close look at the scars—it was him. The very space around Sam’s neighbor vibrated with anticipation. Not the nervous kind either, but as if it was waiting for something powerful to happen.

  The man stopped at the door leading into the garage. It was a lot like the rest of the house. Neat. Organized. Everything in a particular place but somehow hollow. A tarp covered a car in the center of the garage.

  “Here.” The old man eased down the steps. One hand on his cane, the other on the railing. He grunted when he reached the bottom. “Boxes here.” He tapped the cardboard cubes with his cane. “Go here.” He pointed to the empty space on the shelf near the top.

  The five boxes weren’t even big. And this guy was going to give him twenty bucks to move them?

  “What’s inside?” Sam walked over. They weren’t sealed. Maybe he could sneak a quick look when the guy was gone.

  “Keepsakes. Important things.”

  “If they’re so important, then why do you have them out here?”

  The man tilted his head as if examining the question. “Some memories are better left tucked away.”

  He turned to go back inside.

  “Uh, what’s your name?” Sam had lived next to the guy his whole life, and he’d never even bothered to ask before.

  “Marcel. You move the boxes. I will cut you a piece of pie and put it on table. Then we can talk.”

  “About what?” Probably what Sam had been doing in the backyard. Now that he wasn’t out there with the rope in his hand, Sam wasn’t sure he could answer the question. But the guy didn’t ask when he walked up. He didn’t even act like he noticed. Maybe his eyesight was really bad. White clouded the right one partially covered in scars. The left one clear, dark brown. Maybe it was worse than it looked.

  Marcel planted his cane on the first step. He straightened to his full height, his shoulders expanding. He’d been pretty big before, now he looked twice as wide, and the strange sensation he radiated beat the air.

  But Sam wasn’t afraid of him.

  He did not look at Sam when he said, “Because after you look at what is in the boxes, you will have questions.” With that, Marcel climbed the handful of steps and went back inside.

  How did Marcel know?

  Sam scrubbed his sweaty palms on his shirt. He decided he wouldn’t look. Just to prove a point, he would not open the boxes no matter how tempting they were.

  He picked up the first one. It was lighter than Sam expected.

  Was it empty?

  He shook it. Whatever was inside shifted.

  He put the box down.

  If Marcel knew he was going to look, then he must not have cared because he would have told him not to.

  The hell with it. Sam opened the box. Inside, a couple of folded sweaters and shoeboxes. In one of the shoeboxes, letters, and in the other photos. Most black and white or faded enough to suggest they’d been taken a long time ago.

  The 80s was a long time ago. These looked older than then.

  Sam took one out.

  A group of children stood shoulder to shoulder, tiered from shortest to tallest. A school photo?

  They wore identical uniforms. Maybe that’s how they dressed wherever Marcel was from.

  The only adult stood at the end with her back straight, face serious. All the children had serious faces.

  Sam turned the picture over. Blank. He took out another picture. It was in color. A body of water and high mountains framed the two men at the forefront. The one on the right had his arm around the other man’s waist and leaned into him in a way that suggested they were more than friends.

  His eyes sparkled, his smile glowed. The second man didn’t smile at the camera.

  He watched.

  Maybe it was at the person who took their photo or maybe it was something else behind the camera. But his expression didn’t match the intensity of his eyes.

  Sam had just looked into those same eyes moments ago.

  He held the two photos side by side. The children, the teacher, all of them watched.

  Sam put the photos back in the box. Maybe he didn’t want to know after all.

  It was three simple words written on an envelope that caught his attention again.

  Almost against his will, Sam picked up the letter. The paper of the envelope was thicker than anything he’d ever written on, and it had yellowed around the edges.

  Sam pushed up the flap. Faint pen marks showed through the folded sheet.

  He took it out.

  There were no lines, but each sentence was perfect, each word elegant, the handwriting so beautiful; alone, it was a work of art. This was more than just a letter. These were words someone had chosen to carry a message.

  Do you remember that night under the stars when you kissed me?

  I think of that night. I think of the darkness. I think of the billion points of light stretching for eternity. Then I think of you, and the rest disappears. There is only us, Marcel. Your lips on mine, the taste of your tongue, the warmth of your touch.

  One day it will just be us. No worries. No fears. No secrets. Just us. The stars. The night.

  Love Alexander.

  Sam folded the letter back up, returned it to the envelope, and dropped it in the box. There were so many letters. Were they all like that? Different men? Or the same?