Sam put his hand in his jacket pocket. The remnants of his poem made a shredded ball in the folds of fabric.

  What would it have been like if Joe hadn’t torn it up? If he’d really meant what he said, any sane person would have been happy to have words like that written about them. Obviously, he’d meant only a guy to a girl, or vice versa, but what if he’d meant a guy to a guy?

  Sam took out the box of pictures and the box of letters and knelt on the garage floor. One by one, he opened them and read them. Slowly he came to realize he was not alone.

  Ben sat in his car with the contents from the safe deposit box in a packet laying in the passenger seat.

  He’d read the letters and looked through the notebook. Then he’d stared at the gun until Mr. Mason came to check on him. The bank manager had the cardboard envelope in his hand like he’d known Ben would want to take the items with him.

  And why did he want to take them with him? What was he going to do?

  Kill the man named Marcel Sergie?

  The thought was so three-dimensional, Ben could practically hold it.

  And why would he do that?

  For taking away a mother he never knew? For ruining her life? For stripping Ben of a life he could’ve had?

  Did have.

  It wasn’t that Ben didn’t love his uncle, but he couldn’t deny the longing for more. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if the sense of want was because his mother had never come back for him or because of something else. A missing puzzle piece leaving his life incomplete.

  Ben carried the envelope into the hotel where he’d been staying. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it still cost more than he wanted to spend. But he didn’t worry. He hadn’t counted the money, but there had to be well over fifty grand.

  Where the hell had his uncle gotten so much cash? He must have saved it for years.

  Ben couldn’t help but think of all the times his uncle scrimped for change in the cushions of the sofa when he thought Ben wasn’t looking, so he had school lunch money.

  As soon as Ben was old enough, he took an after-school job washing pots for a café a block from the apartment. Then he’d put change under the cushions. It worked great until he got caught.

  That was the one and only time Ben’s uncle raised his voice at him. After a long argument, they’d come to an agreement. Ben could keep the job as long as he kept his grades up. But one slip and the job was gone, and his nose went back in the books.

  By the time Ben graduated, he was waiting tables and had saved enough to buy a car. It wasn’t much, but it got him around. Uncle Greg had insisted Ben quit coming all the way back home on the weekends to keep from putting wear and tear on the vehicle and wasting his money on gas.

  Ben had been grateful for the extra cash. His scholarship and the grants barely gave him enough to keep fed. And the workload at school made it impossible for him to take a job if he wanted time to sleep. The few scant hours of freedom he’d had, he’d wasted on having a life.

  Now he regretted his selfishness. If he’d been at the apartment, his uncle wouldn’t have been an easy target.

  Common sense told Ben there wasn’t much to be done when it came to being shot, but the guilt remained.

  There was no space between the table, the TV, and the dinky dresser. So Ben sat cross-legged on the bed with his back to the headboard and dumped the contents of the envelope in front of him.

  Gun, money, letters, notebook.

  Four items containing answers to so many questions and filled him with a thousand more. His mother had been murdered by the same man who killed dozens of other people. Had he killed Ben’s father too?

  Uncle Greg had obviously been tracking him for the past fifteen years. The last entry in the notebook from a year ago. An address and a phone number. Had Marcel discovered that Uncle Greg knew where he was, and Marcel had shot him to keep his secret hidden?

  It made more sense than someone breaking into his uncle’s apartment to steal a twenty-year-old TV.

  Small newspaper clippings accompanied other entries. Some of them written in different languages. But there had been enough in English, Ben didn’t need to be able to read the articles to know what they said.

  They were about people who’d been murdered.

  Throats slit.

  Bodies left where they fell.

  Sometimes in their homes, sometimes on the street, sometimes backstage at a political meeting.

  The less important people were reduced to a dozen lines of text. The Embassy leaders, the businessmen, an heiress, even a prince or two, had pictures. There were only a handful of newspaper clippings, but he was sure there was more. Ben quit counting the list of names in the notebook after he reached thirty and found several in the articles matching the ones on the list. Beside each name: a date, a place, a time.

  A hand-drawn star marked his father’s name: Ivan Annanstein. It would have been just another name on the list if Ben hadn’t seen the wedding announcement. Going by the dates, his father and mother had been married for about eight years, and Ben had been three when his father was killed. His mother had left Ben with his uncle around the age of four.

  The memory consisted of an alley in the middle of the night shivering in the cold, damp air. His mother had fussed with his hat and coat, making sure there were no gaps to expose his skin. The moment she’d given Ben’s hand to Greg, the brightest detail in Ben’s mind.

  Then she placed a kiss on his forehead and left.

  Ben had looked for that street from the moment he could leave the apartment on his own. It didn’t take long for him to figure out wherever it had been, it wasn’t in the city where Uncle Greg lived.

  Wherever his mother had taken him, the buildings had been close to the road. The sidewalks made of stone. And the night interrupted by very few streetlamps.

  The smell stuck with Ben the most. Her perfume. Her fear. The crispness in the air.

  She’d promised to come back.

  Now he understood why she didn’t.

  There was no article to tell Ben what happened, but her name was on the list. According to the date, she’d died a little over a year after she left and a week before Ben’s sixth birthday.

  With all this evidence, why hadn’t his uncle gone to the police? Because it wasn’t enough evidence? Because the majority of killings had happened overseas. Everything was right there to send Marcel to prison for the rest of his life.

  At least for Ben.

  Clearly his uncle hadn’t had faith in the legal system.

  Ben picked up the gun. The weight of the weapon suggested the clip was full.

  Ben checked the safety. On. He laid it back down.

  His uncle had these items for a reason.

  Ben was pretty sure what that reason was. His uncle, the quite retired librarian who raised Ben, had been getting ready to go hunting.

  But the thing he hunted, hunted him. The clock, the key, they could only be a request that if he failed for Ben to not let the task go unfinished.

  Ben’s uncle had never asked anything of him. So for Ben, there was only one answer to the unspoken plea.

  And he would do it. He would finish what his uncle started.

  He would slay a beast.

  He would kill the killer.

  It was a good two hours before the boy came out of the garage. He made a dash for the back door.

  “Sit. Eat. We will talk.”

  “I can’t. I have to go, my mom will be back any minute. And she’ll see… She won’t know where I’m at.”

  “She came home five minutes ago.” Marcel eased himself from the recliner. “I called her. I told her where you were. She is fine with it.”

  “You called my mom?”

  “Yes.” Marcel went into the kitchen.

  “How did you know my phone number?”

  “They make this book. It has yellow and white pages. There are many numbers in those pages. On the yellow ones, there are businesses, on the white, people. I looked up the number.” If she hadn’t been listed, he would have gone over. The phone had been better, even if they weren’t complete strangers.

  Mrs. Waters had made a point to introduce herself to Marcel when they first moved to the neighborhood. She’d watched him with caution, and she’d used her job to search his background. Marcel got the call from his House to let him know she’d asked questions. He told them not to worry. She was just a concerned mother. A strong woman.

  Still, it seemed easier for people to talk to him when they didn’t have to see the scars.

  Strange how a bit of skin could make a person uneasy.

  “How did you know her name?”

  Marcel tapped a finger against his temple. “I know.”

  “But how?”

  “Come eat your pie.”

  Sam looked back toward the door. He clenched his fists.

  “Do not worry. I take care of the chair and rope.”

  Those wide dark eyes came back to Marcel. The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “I put them back. Where they belong. Rope on hook in garage. Chair at table.”

  “You went into my house?”

  “I could not put them back from the outside. If I left them on the porch, she would have wanted to know why they were there. I figured if you want her to know, you will tell her. Otherwise, it is best not to worry her. She has too much to worry about.” Most parents did.

  “You didn’t really need me to move the boxes, did you?”

  Marcel huffed. “Of course I did.” He went to the fridge and took out the saucer with the slice of peach pie. “Do you want ice cream with your pie?” Sam walked over to the wet bar separating the dining room from the kitchen. “I have vanilla. It goes best with everything. You like?”

  Sam sat on one of the stools. “I read some of the letters, but I guess you know that?”

  “I suspected. The boxes were not heavy, and two hours a long time to move them.”

  “You’re gay.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I suppose. If you want labels. But those work better on cans of food. When you need to know what is inside. People? People are the same. Inside. Outside. It makes no difference. Labels are not necessary.” In the House, no one was a boy or a girl. They were Students. Those who weren’t were Teachers.

  Respect was given in equal amounts.

  Marcel set the box of ice cream on the counter and scooped out two servings to go with Sam’s pie. He set the saucer in front of Sam. “Is good.” He handed the boy a spoon.

  “Where are you from?”

  Marcel put ice cream with his slice of pie. “I am from many places.”

  “You talk funny.”

  “So I have been told.”

  “I’ve never heard an accent like yours before.”

  “It is many accents.” Marcel put everything back into the fridge and carried his saucer around to the other side. He sat next to the boy. But not close enough to threaten his space.

  “How can you have many accents?”

  Marcel took a bite of pie soaked in vanilla ice cream. The boy did the same. His curious gaze never left Marcel’s face. Had he ever looked at the world with such innocence? Marcel couldn’t remember if he had. Probably a good thing. A man could not miss what he did not know.

  “Where I grew up, there were several children. We all spoke differently. After a few years, the words melted together. German, Italian, French, and many others. Some from very far away. Then it became the same.” Not being able to understand each other had another purpose. It forced them to observe each other’s body language. To learn how to communicate without uttering a single word. Not that they’d been allowed to speak during any lesson.

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “It is not important, you have probably never heard of it anyhow.” Marcel saluted Sam with a spoonful of pie. “Good, right? I can make the best pie.”

  Sam smiled around his spoon. After he swallowed, he said, “Almost the best.”

  “Almost?”

  “Yeah, my mom makes a…” Sam stared at the glob of ice cream melting around the island of cooked fruit and pastry. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

  Marcel ate. Sam stared.

  “If you want to tell me. You will tell me. Otherwise, it is not for me to know.”

  Sam exhaled a slow sigh. “I wrote a stupid poem.”

  Marcel nodded. “Poetry is very difficult. Takes tragic mind.”

  “It was about another boy.” Sam poked at his uneaten pie. “How I fee—felt about him.” His bottom lip trembled, but he took a breath, and the tears never came. “He was my best friend. He told me I was sick and never to talk to him again. My best friend.” He dropped the spoon.

  Marcel continued to eat his pie while Sam propped his elbows on the counter and held his face.

  Still no tears.

  Good. Joe Tinsley wasn’t worth a single one.

  “Fear.” Marcel finished his desert and carried the plate back into the kitchen.

  “Fear?”

  “Yes. Fear. It does strange things to a man. It makes them see what is not there. Hear what was never said. Worst of all, it makes them think.”

  “How can thinking be a bad thing?”

  “Because the things they think about are not important. Fear makes the entire world shrink down to a single point. Them.” Marcel poured himself a cup of coffee. He drank it standing at the counter.

  Sam picked up his spoon and resumed moving the pie and ice cream around on the saucer. The self-doubt drew worry lines in his young face. “What if everyone finds out?” Sam spooned up a bite but never ate it. “And I have three classes with him. He sits right next to me.”

  “When they find out, he will not be the one to tell them. And when they find out there is nothing you can do.”

  Sam laughed. It sounded more like a sob. “I thought grown-ups were supposed to tell you how everything will be okay and stuff. You know, to make you feel better.”

  “Like I said, fear does strange things to a man.” Marcel sipped his coffee. “It makes him see, hear, and think. A lie is just one way a man does that.”

  “So, telling someone everything will be okay is a lie?”

  “Only if it is not the truth. Sometimes, everything will be okay.”

  “But you don’t think I’ll be okay?” His shoulders fell.

  “Would you like some milk to go with your pie?”

  Sam picked up his spoon. He put it down. “I’m not really hungry.”

  “That is the best time to eat. That way, you will never know what it is like to be hungry.”

  Sam snorted and shook his head. “You’re weird. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “You never asked if I was weird. You asked if I was a weird-o.”

  Sam tapped his spoon on the edge of the dish. His gaze slid to the window facing his house. The frown on his face deepened. Then he slowly blinked as if the very action was painful. “I’ll never be able to face him.”

  “Why?”

  Sam gave Marcel a look. “Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve said? I told my best friend I’m in love with him, and now he hates me for it.”

  “He does not hate you. He fears you. More than you, he fears himself.”

  “Yeah, well, he didn’t look very afraid, he looked pissed off.”

  “Only because anger is what you wanted to see. Like I said. Fear.”

  Sam hopped off his stool. “Look, thanks for the pie and all, but I gotta go. I have homework and…other…stuff.”

  Marcel took out his wallet. “Your money.” He laid it on the wet bar.

  Sam shook his head. “It’s okay. I didn’t mind moving the boxes for you.” The gratefulness in his eyes pushed back the shadows. Marcel had wondered if he might try again. It was good to know he wouldn’t.

  “Then you go. Do your homework. Make your A’s. But do not be afraid of your friend or of anyone else.”

  Sam stopped at the back door. He squeezed the doorknob but didn’t turn it. A deep breath expanded his skinny chest, and he dropped his chin. “What if I am afraid? What if I can’t help but be afraid?”

  Marcel shrugged. “Then you move boxes.”

  Sam smiled, but there wasn’t much happiness in it. He opened the door. “You’re really weird.” He shut it behind him and headed across the yard, back to his house.

  Marcel sipped his coffee.

  Jacob rubbed his shoulder.

  It hadn’t hurt the day after his run-in with Logan, but this evening the tendons tightened up, and now the joint ached every time he moved it.

  He’d hoped the walk to Marcel’s would give it time to dull, but if anything, it was worse. If Marcel asked what happened—when Marcel asked what happened—Jacob couldn’t tell him.

  Logan might be a piece of shit, but he was still a person.

  Although the times Logan had used Jacob, he hadn’t seemed very human. Those moments when Jacob had his face shoved so deep into a pillow he could barely breathe, he would have gladly let someone shoot the bastard.

  But Marcel hadn’t used a gun on Frankie.

  Jacob thumbed a tear from his eye. The man had had to die. He would have never left Jacob alone. It was a fact Jacob knew and accepted. He hadn’t shed a single tear for the man, but Jacob did cry for the ignorance he’d lost when he watched him die.

  The virginity of his innocence.

  Jacob inhaled. The cool night air soothed the heat in his cheeks and eased the tension in his body. By the time he got to Marcel’s street, his breathing had slowed, and his heart no longer fluttered. When he reached the end of the driveway, he was already half-hard.

  The porch light cast a gold puddle onto the steps. He found the door unlocked.

  Jacob went inside.

  Marcel stood at the back door, looking out into the night. He was shirtless, and the expanse of scars spread over his right shoulder, pitting the flesh. Hungry roots, crawling across his back, distorting the dagger and circle tattooed between his shoulders.

  Jacob rubbed the smaller, less detailed version as a scar on the webbing of his hand.

  Marcel didn’t look at him. “Have you eaten?”