Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

The morning was gorgeous. The air wasn’t quite crisp—Miami didn’t do crisp, not at this time of year. Still, the sky was blue and the humidity was bearable. And the weather forecast—sunny all day—was perfect for an evening cruise.

Of course this was Florida, where the sky could go from clear to towering cumulonimbus in the blink of an eye. Still, Ian took the sparkling sunlight as a good sign.

He was fed, he’d slept well, he was wearing dry clothes, and he’d just gotten laid. Again.

He’d woken up to find Phoebe, soft and naked in his arms. They’d slept that way all night—spooned together with her back to his front—and despite that, he was loath to let her go.

His breathing must’ve changed, or maybe she just sensed that he was awake, because she woke up, too, with a sigh and a smile, pushing her hair back out of both of their faces, even as she reached between her legs to find him in his full boy-howdy morning state.

The temptation to just shift a little and enter her was powerful. Ian didn’t want to move away from her, not even long enough to reach for one of their few remaining condoms.

There was one under his pillow. When he’d put it there last night, Phoebe had teased him about expecting a visit from the sex fairy, and he’d laughed and kissed her. And kissed her. And kissed her …

It was right there. He could grab it, open it, and put it on. It would take less than a minute, even if he only used one hand.

But God damn, he didn’t want to. For the first time in his entire life he wanted … more. And it wasn’t him wanting the pleasure of sex with nothing between them—he respected them both too much to risk everything for that. No, it was the idea of sharing himself with this woman, and of having her share herself so completely in return.

Herself and her life.

It wasn’t fifty-fifty, Aaron had told him. It’s a-hundred-a-hundred, because you give everything, and you get everything in return.

Ian wanted that. And he knew that he had it—right there, in his arms.

Phoebe, meanwhile, was playing with fire. She was touching him, stroking him, using him to stroke herself, daring to push him—just a little bit—inside of her.

“Ian,” she breathed. “I want you.”

He wanted her, too. But she wasn’t his to have, to hold, to keep.

So he dug for the condom, and gently pulled himself away from the silken touch of her hands, and made damn sure that she was safe.

She breathed his name as he came back to her, as he pushed himself home. And he took his sweet time, touching her in all of the places, in all of the ways that he knew gave her pleasure, until she came in slow motion around him, and he let himself go, too, still wishing for the impossible.…

He’d gotten out of bed almost immediately after, unable or maybe just unwilling to talk, murmuring, “I need to get moving,” and she’d let him go.

He’d showered, gotten dressed, and gone downstairs, where Francine was watching Rory, and Martell was making breakfast and watching Francine. Hard to tell if that was for Berto’s sake, or if Martell had become genuinely enamored. And that—the idea of Francine finding happiness—was probably just more wishful thinking on Ian’s part.

He took his coffee out onto the back lanai, where the morning was beautiful, even with the privacy shades pulled down. But it wasn’t as beautiful as it had been just minutes ago, with Phoebe in his arms. And then he gently pushed her from the forefront of his thoughts and took out his phone and dialed the number that the Dutchman had given him.

The man picked up on the first ring. “Vanderzee.”

Ian had expected to leave a message, and he had to work to sound pleased that he’d made human contact. When in need, channel Captain Kirk. In other words, go big. “Georg. It’s Ian. Good morning.”

“It is a good morning, my friend. I was hoping to hear from you.”

Words to warm the cockles of his heart, assuming both that his heart had cockles and that he was as big of a douchebag as the Dutchman. “About that business situation we spoke of yesterday—I’m afraid my time line has moved to now,” Ian told the man. “I’m experiencing a clusterf*ck and … I’m calling on a scrambled line—is yours secure?”

“It is.”

“Okay.” Ian exhaled hard. “That’s good. And, look, I’ll understand completely if you’re unable to help. I realize I’m asking a lot, but it’s also a financial opportunity, so.” Another deep breath. “I’ve got six point five mill of product—good-quality crystal meth. It’s not top tier, but it’s very good—except my buyer just bailed. I’ve got to move this shit fast, it’s on fire, and I’m in a cash hole, which, as you know, is not a good combination. I’ve got an a*shole breathing down my neck, looking to seize the entire shipment in lieu of the million-one that I owe him, and while I’m willing to take a loss, one that big would …” He laughed. “Jesus, it would cripple me.”


Vanderzee murmured words of consolation.

Ian continued. “I’ve got to get this out of the country tonight, I’ve got a safe way to do it, but I don’t have warehousing overseas, so it needs a destination. It doesn’t matter where, I can get it there, as long as it’s OCONUS. If you’ve got a connection to anyone who might be in the market for it outside the U.S., I’ll take a deep cut. I’ll let it go for four mill, maybe even three point five, plus you’ll get a finder’s fee, but only if and when the deal goes down. And I apologize if that last part sounded hostile, that was not my intention at all. After yesterday, I owe you my life.”

The Dutchman chuckled. “You owe me nothing. After all these years, we’re finally even.”

“Still,” Ian said. “I know I’m asking too much. You don’t know my operation. I thought we’d have more time for me to show you how it works. And I’m sorry about—”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the Dutchman jumped in, exactly as Ian had expected him to.

He could tell from the man’s voice that he’d swallowed the bait.

“Thank you,” Ian said, and actually meant it.

“I’ll be in touch,” and with that the call was ended.

Ian looked up to see Francine standing in the doorway with Rory.

“So that was a thing of beauty,” Francie said as she bounced the little boy on her hip.

Ian nodded. “He’ll call back, within the hour. He’ll offer three point six, with apologies. He’ll sweeten the deal by telling me that his finder’s fee will come from the buyer.”

“Putty in your capable hands,” she said. “You want pancakes?”

“No, thanks,” Ian said. “I’m good.”

“Hmm,” she said as she walked away, and maybe she didn’t mean anything, but he took it to mean Then why are you down here when Phoebe’s upstairs, and what’s up with that anyway?

Or maybe she meant, Why don’t you predict an accurate future for Phoebe as long as you’re being clairvoyant? You know you can do it.…

Francine was right. Ian could do it.

Over the next few days, Phoebe would help him with this job, save those kids, feel great. And then, she’d try to save him. Try, and fail, and probably cry, get angry, rail, grieve, and finally accept. And eventually, as he sank back into the bowels of the state prison system, as days, then weeks, then months slipped past, she’d go about living her life. She’d remember Ian fondly as a moment of madness, a crazy encounter, a temporary boyfriend—as she herself had called him. Eventually though, she’d find a man who recognized how special she was, and he’d wake up beside her every morning, well aware of how infinitely lucky he was.

And Ian could sit here pretending that he would be glad for her when that happened—that what he truly wanted more than anything was her happiness.

But all he could think was: shit.

* * *

Aaron woke up to find Sheldon, with his clothes and his shoes in his arms, heading for the door, on the verge of sneaking out of their room as what looked like midmorning light leaked in around the window shades.

“Hey,” Aaron said.

Shel turned to face him, guilt flashing briefly in his eyes. “Crap! I’m sorry I woke you. I wanted to let you sleep.”

Aaron sat up, reaching for his phone to see … It was well after nine. “I should’ve been up by now.”

“It’s okay. Most of us are on hold. Ian’s still waiting for Vanderzee to call him back,” Shel reported. “They spoke earlier, and Ian dropped the bait. Nothing for us to do until the mark bites.”

This was the time, during a job like this, where you prepped on sheer faith that the mark would go all in. And while Yashi and Deb were probably scrambling to procure everything that was on Ian’s wish list, the rest of the team had already memorized the various maps and floor plans of both the warehouse and the consulate, and they were now mostly holding.

“For what it’s worth,” Shel continued, “Ian’s confident he’s gonna call. He’s certain that Vanderzee’s low on funds, due to being unable to move those children. The kind of security needed for that, both active and passive, can’t be cheap.”

Active security included payroll for guards, who knew damn well what they were guarding. Passive was paying people to look the other way or to stick their fingers in their ears and go la la la. Ian was right about that—hiding two kids for this many days was a hardcore cash suck.

Aaron agreed with his brother in that it was just a matter of time before the Dutchman called them back.

He stretched. He’d slept better than he had in days—thanks to Shel’s demand for forgiveness. “What time did Roar get up?”

“The usual.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t hear him.”

“I was already awake,” Shel said. “I got to him pretty quickly.”

“Thanks.”

“He’s in the kitchen with Francie,” Shel told him. “Martell’s making pancakes. With blueberries and real maple syrup.”

“Ugh,” Aaron made a sound of despair as he suddenly remembered. “I should’ve reminded Eee about the babysitter.”

“Already done,” Shelly said. “Due to arrive in a few hours. Alex Murray.”

Aaron laughed. “Seriously? Johnny Murray’s kid.” Murray’d served in the SEALs with Ian, and had worked with them all on a number of jobs.

“Johnny’s coming, too,” Shel said. “He could do this for Eee without risking jail time, so it’s all working out.”

“Well, we now know Rory’s going to be super-safe. That’s good.” As Aaron pushed back the covers and got out of bed, Sheldon slightly shifted his armload of clothing, as if to hide what he was carrying, which was kind of weird, since it wasn’t Aaron’s birthday.

He was holding a yellow legal pad right on the top of his shoes and clothes, and Aaron could see that the front page was completely covered with Shel’s messy handwriting. Except, as he got closer, he saw that—whatever it was on that pad—it wasn’t messy. Shel had taken extra time to be legible. Damn, he’d actually printed in careful block letters.

“What’s that?” Aaron asked, pointing as he shuffled past, on his way into the bathroom.

“Oh. Just notes,” Shel said, following him to the door. “I couldn’t sleep, so I outlined the changes that need to be made to the computer program for the ship’s compass. You know, in case Vanderzee goes onto the bridge and we want him to believe we’re heading south. Or north. Depending. I didn’t have my laptop, and I didn’t want to wake you, so I just wrote it out longhand and, um …”

“And here I’d thought you’d started writing me poetry,” Aaron teased as he flushed and went to the sink to wash his hands and then brush his teeth.

Shelly smiled at that. “Yeah, you definitely don’t want that.”

“I might.” Aaron turned on the shower, to let the water warm up. He spat and rinsed and put his toothbrush back, then took Shel’s armload of stuff from him on his way past, carrying it over to the bed. Now that Aaron was up, there was no longer any need for him to leave the room to shower. “I’ll join you in there, in a sec. I just want to stretch out my leg.” An old injury, a twisted knee, acted up in the rain. It helped if he kept limber and … Whoa, wait. “This is notes?”


The legal pad was covered in clearly written, clearly worded instructions that bore little to no resemblance to Shel’s usual scribbled notes. Aaron flipped through the pages—and there were pages. And pages. No way was this notes. It was, instead, a carefully penned recipe.

So that someone besides Sheldon could program the yacht’s computer, as well as the GPS on whatever phones Ian brought on board.

Aaron turned back to see Shel still standing in the bathroom door, that guilty look back in his eyes.

And in a dizzying rush, Aaron understood what this was. What all of it was. Why it had been so important to Shel that Aaron forgive him, that they make up, make love. His words, from earlier yesterday: I love you. And Rory. I would do anything for you. Please always remember that. He’d repeated the sentiment, in a similar message, last night.

Sheldon was saying good-bye.

“If you aren’t going to be here, to program the computer and the phones,” Aaron asked, even though he already knew the answer, “where are you going to be?”

Shel didn’t try to bullshit him. He told the truth. “I thought I’d … try to talk to him.”

“Davio.” Aaron laughed even though he could feel his head imploding.

Shel nodded. “Ian said he’d be at that meeting tonight, at the hospital. In Sarasota. I thought maybe, since Manny’d be there—”

“No.” Aaron crossed the room to him in several large strides. “Nuh-uh. Nope. You are not doing this.” He put his arms around Shelly, as if that would somehow keep him from leaving. Jesus, he’d tie him up if necessary, but he’d start here.

“It’s been ten years,” Shel said as he clung to Aaron, too—as if he likewise didn’t want to let him go. “I just keep thinking, maybe if I go and try to talk to him—”

“Talk?” Aaron repeated. “To the crazy man?”

“I have to try,” Shel whispered. “All this bullshit—it’s all my fault. Right from the start. God, you deserve more. You deserve better.”

So said the man who’d spent four years searching for him. Aaron had had other boyfriends in that rough and rocky time after high school, while they were apart, but Sheldon hadn’t. Shel had loved him, and he’d stayed true.

“What I deserve,” Aaron said now, working it hard to keep his voice from shaking, “is a chance to argue more about what you should or shouldn’t have told me when you found out that Ian was in Northport. What I deserve is a chance to watch our son grow up with you beside me. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.” Aaron pulled back to look into Shelly’s eyes. “Baby, you know that your father is one of those things that will never, ever change.”

Shel was silent.

“I love you,” Aaron continued. “You—with your miserable family and bullshit emotional luggage that doesn’t quite match mine, but comes pretty damn close. I even love you when I’m hurt and angry and when I stomp around and pretend that I might leave.”

“That was pretend?” Shel asked. “Because it felt kind of … not.”

“I promise you, I swear to you, that I won’t ever leave,” Aaron told him, “if you promise and swear that you won’t either. Although I think we already agreed to this, years ago, in Canada.”

Shel smiled at that. It was shaky, but it was definitely a smile. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

“I forgive you,” Aaron said, and this time, he honestly meant it.

He was leaning in to kiss Shelly, and then move this conversation into the steam-creating shower, when someone with fists of stone hammered on the bedroom door.

Boom boom boom!

It had to be Francine. She could pack one hell of a punch. “Shel! Aaron!” It was. “Get your asses out here! Vanderzee just called Ian. We’re go. I repeat, this mission is go!”

* * *

Phoebe held the world’s most adorable baby while the team leapt into action around her. She wasn’t particularly good with children, but this one was a living advertisement for procreation, with his long eyelashes, cherub’s cheeks, bright eyes, and joyful if drool-soggy smile.

As she and Rory watched, Martell and Yashi tried on their security guard uniforms—Martell fiercely fashion-walked in his—while Francine pretended not to be amused. Phoebe hung close, fascinated, as the blonde instructed Yashi as to how the fake-blood pack worked.

Across the room, Berto had drawn a floor plan of his warehouse, and he and Ian were discussing exactly where, inside, the coming meeting with the Dutchman should take place, where the tied up and head-bagged guards—AKA Martell and Yashi—should be positioned, and where Francine could be hidden with a sniper rifle, watching and ready, in case something went wrong.

Ian made Phoebe look at the drawing, too. In case of that dreaded something-goes-wrong scenario, she was supposed to stay close to him, but if something—again with the impending doom of that dire-sounding something—happened to him, she was to head for the office in the back. And if she couldn’t get there, she should take cover behind a hill of crates.

Phoebe discovered that she really didn’t like thinking about what she would do if something happened to Ian.

God help her, she was in trouble, because something was going to happen to him. After this was over, he was going back to prison, where, if Manny or Davio or even Berto found out that he was really there trying to bring them down, he would immediately be killed. She couldn’t stop thinking that. Surely there had to be a better way.…

But there was no time to talk to Ian about any of it. In fact, they hadn’t had a real conversation since last night. Between then and now, the talking they’d done hadn’t gone much beyond Oh, God, and Yes, please, more, yes!

Phoebe’d woken up to find Ian watching her, and they’d made love again—exquisitely, beautifully, tenderly—in the pale morning light.

Afterward, he got up almost immediately, and she let him leave the room, even though she wanted to sit up and say, Wait. Let me help you negotiate a new agreement with Manny and Berto—one that doesn’t involve prison time.

But she didn’t dare.

And by the time she’d showered and followed him downstairs, Ian had already spoken to Vanderzee—twice—and was hard at work, prepping for this dangerous game of make-believe. It was a game that Ian seemed confident they’d win.

In fact, his confidence was contagious. His charisma was irresistible. And as leader of this insane mission, he knew exactly where each of his team members would be, and exactly what they would be doing, at any given moment, over the course of what he called the “sting.” He was, without a doubt, the king of all details.

And when Ian asked her to, Phoebe dutifully studied a map of the area—filled with warehouses and other industrial buildings, and a labyrinth of roads and driveways and canals—so she would be familiar with the lay of the land.

“Here’s where Aaron’ll pull up the truck, to load the computers,” Ian said, enlarging the map on the computer screen so that Berto’s warehouse and its loading area was enormous. He hovered the cursor on a point next to the big building.

“Aaron knows how to drive an eighteen-wheeler?” Phoebe asked as Shel took a now-squirming and fragrant Rory from her arms. She immediately answered her own question. “Of course he does.” That was not something Ian would’ve overlooked.


Next to them, on the table, was one of Berto’s desktop computer towers, out of its factory packing and open to reveal a huge amount of empty space inside the metal frame. The hardware used in this type of computer didn’t take up much room, so the outer shell was a perfect vessel for contraband. Nearby was an extra-large plastic bag with a zipper closure, filled with the actual illegal drugs, procured from some FBI evidence locker. They didn’t need enough to fill all of the computers—just one. That would be enough to fool the Dutchman.

Although, “What if we lose that?” Phoebe asked Ian, pointing to the bag. “What if it falls overboard, or the boat sinks, or—”

“I try to take life one goatf*ck at a time,” he said, tapping on the computer screen to return her attention to the map. “Here’s where we’ll park when we arrive”—he hovered the arrow over a spot near where the truck was to go—“and here’s where the surveillance van’ll be hidden.”

Sheldon would be inside of the van, monitoring the situation, and keeping an eye on the feed from a series of video cameras placed around the perimeter to make sure that there were, as Ian put it, “no uninvited guests to the party.”

But that was unlikely, given the geography.

Berto owned a number of warehouses in Miami, but the one he and Ian had chosen was the last building on a dead-end street, which meant they wouldn’t have to deal with a stream of traffic driving past. It had a long driveway and the delivery bay was around the back of the structure, facing the windowless wall of a neighboring warehouse—providing them with even more isolation.

Francine was going over to the site early, and with Martell’s and Yashi’s help, she would set up the cameras—as well as help Berto prep. He needed to look as if he’d been shot, and it not only had to appear real, but as if he’d already given himself first aid. They didn’t want the Dutchman playing the medic-hero and ripping open Berto’s bloody shirt to find no bullet wound beneath.

Deb, meanwhile, was already over at the dock, awaiting the arrival of the luxury speedboat that would take them—and their “illegal” cargo—to Fake-Cuba and back. She had not done a fashion-walk in the clothing she was going to wear, but she had grimaced when looking into the shopping bag that held her sideboob-baring outfit.

If the yacht arrived promptly, Deb would come to the warehouse and join Shelly in the surveillance van.

“We’ll be meeting Vanderzee at sixteen hundred—four o’clock.” Ian translated the time into nonmilitary-speak for Phoebe. “With a goal of departing from the dock by seventeen thirty.”

Phoebe did the math: If they left at 5:30 P.M., they would arrive in Pretend-Cuba just before ten o’clock, long after the sun set. That would give them plenty of hours of darkness to unload the cargo and make the four-hour journey back. And it would have to be dark when they left in order for the charade to succeed, since Florida was decidedly more built up than the part of Cuba to which they were allegedly going. And of course, there was the matter of the sun, rising in the east, and hanging there in the sky, making it very clear as to whether they were traveling north or south …

“I’m going to try to talk him into going to Berto’s warehouse in our car,” Ian continued, him being the Dutchman, “but I’m not sure that’ll happen. He might want to take his own vehicle. He’ll also be accompanied by some of his men. I’m going to try to pare that down to the smallest possible number. I doubt we’ll get him to come alone, in fact we probably don’t want that, because we’re going to go straight from the warehouse to the dock, and I know he’s not going on a four-hour boat ride without at least one bodyguard.”

“A four-hour tour,” Sheldon sang to the tune of the Gilligan’s Island theme song, as he danced past them with Rory. “A four-hour tour!”

The baby’s laughter made Ian smile, and there it was again, that terrible earth-shifting feeling inside of her, but this time it was accompanied by a powerful layer of warmth.

“You should probably talk to Francine and Martell and Yashi before they leave for the warehouse,” she told Ian, as he said, “I really need to touch base with Berto.”

“Him, too,” Phoebe added, nodding as she stood up, needing to put some distance between them before she did something stupid, like throw herself onto the floor while sobbing But I don’t want this to end! “And I should try on the clothes that Yashi got for me, and figure out what I’m going to do with my hair. If we’re supposed to be dressed up, I should probably look less like a refugee.”

“I love your hair.” Ian looked a little surprised by what he’d just said.

And okay. She, too, was also a little flustered, both by the way he was looking at her, and the fact that he’d used the word love in a sentence that started with I. True, it was only her hair that he loved. Still …

He added, “And however you want to wear it, I’m sure it’ll be … beautiful.”

“You were going to say fine,” Phoebe realized, “but you recognized that no one, male or female, ever wants to be told that they look merely fine, so you did a quick substitution. That is truly remarkable.” She started to slow-clap, mostly because it kept her from grabbing him and kissing him. “You are, indeed, a highly evolved Homo sapiens.”

But as Ian laughed, he pushed his chair away from the table, pulled her down onto his lap, and kissed her. Thoroughly. In front of everyone.

When he finally stopped, her fingers were in his hair—his beautiful, thick, wavy hair—and as she held his gaze, as he smiled at her, Phoebe dared to say it back. “I really love your hair, too.”

* * *

Berto’s Miami warehouse was mostly empty, and Francine’s footsteps echoed as she went inside.

It was cooler in there than it was out in the blazing heat of the parking lot, but not by much, which meant this whole stage of the job was going to be a sweaty, stinking ordeal. But that somehow seemed appropriate, considering she was back in a warehouse with the man whom she’d once believed was the love of her life.

The boxes of computer towers were stacked close to the loading dock, but other than that, there were only a few other small hills of crates in the entire huge space.

There was, however, a line of forklifts at the ready, should the need arise.

There was a small office in the back corner—a bathroom, too, which was good. That meant she wouldn’t have to pee in the parking lot, since she was here for the next few hours—until Ian and the Dutchman came and went.

Martell had driven over here with her and Berto—that had been a fun half hour ride. Francine had closed her eyes and pretended to sleep in the back, while Martell rode an uneasy shotgun. He’d started a short discussion about music. Stevie Wonder. Al Green. Motown. Nobody hated Motown, so it was a good try. But Berto clearly hadn’t wanted to chat, so they soon fell into an uncomfortable silence.

While he drove, Berto had made a phone call to the security team that checked in on his property as part of their local rounds—letting them know that they should scratch his address off their list for today and tonight. He was, ahem, holding a private party in his building, and didn’t want to be interrupted.

Apparently, it was not uncommon for him to make that request.


Berto had opened up the huge bay doors to the loading dock when they arrived, and now, with Martell close at hand, he followed Francine as she looked around.

She squinted upward, where there was a metal catwalk. As the daylight continued to fade, it would disappear into the darkness of the high ceiling and become invisible. It wasn’t her first choice for a sniper position—she would be vulnerable to counterattack—but it was probably the only real option.

The benefit would be a bird’s-eye view of the action. If she positioned herself right, she’d have a clear shot of the driveway and the well-lit loading dock, too.

Martell knew what she was planning and was concerned. “We’ve got time—we can move some of those other crates closer,” he said. “Give you some cover.”

“Said the man who’s going to be lying out on the floor in a puddle of fake blood, with his hands cuffed and a bag over his head,” she countered.

“Yeah, that’s going to be harder to do than I thought,” he agreed. “Let’s make sure Dunn has blanks in his weapon, aight? Or maybe we could stuff those rent-a-cop unies with straw instead?”

Francine smiled. “Yeah, because the Dutchman won’t notice that. No, the catwalk’ll do fine. Even if I’m needed for a demonstration of force, I’ll be far enough away that he won’t see my face.”

Berto spoke up. “When I bought the place, I had a five-year contract with a regional pharmacy chain,” he said, apparently feeling that he had to explain the lack of ware in the house. “Four months in, they went bankrupt. We’ve been limping along, month to month, ever since.”

Francine nodded as she again looked around. “You could subdivide this space. Bring in some mattresses. Turn it into a whorehouse. Warehouse, whorehouse—I’m surprised you didn’t think of that sooner.”

“Easy there,” Martell murmured.

“I’m not a pimp,” Berto said on a tired exhale.

“Oh, so it’s your father who handles that part of the family business?” she asked. “While you just, what? Look the other way? I guess that’s not as bad. Oh, wait. No. It is.”

“Let’s get this makeup and costume thing happening,” Martell interjected. “Review the scenario.” He clapped his hands, in Tony Robbins–like fake excitement. “So, the story is that Berto drives up, and finds two men and a truck parked here at the loading bay, getting ready to steal his extra-special, mind-altering, super-valuable shipment of computers. His guards are tied up, bags on their heads, one of them’s dead—that would be me—the other’s unconscious.”

But Berto had turned to face Francine. “You have the right to hate me for a lot of things, but not that,” he said.

“I have the right to hate you for whatever the f*ck I want!” she shot back, and she heard Martell sigh.

“Look,” Martell said. “Kids. This isn’t the time or place—”

“I didn’t mean to kill that man,” Berto told Francine, surprising her by just saying it, outright. “That night.”

“Or maybe it is,” she heard Martell say, as he gave them both some space. “I’ll be over here, if you need me.”

“He broke into the warehouse—our warehouse—and he came screaming out the door like a bat out of hell,” Berto told her. “Scared the shit out of me. He came right at me. He was out-of-his-mind high.”

The man who was talking, the man Francine was looking at, was tired and aging ungracefully. He was overweight and balding and the lines on his face were markers of sorrow, not laughter. And yet, in his eyes, she could see a ghost of the boy he’d once been. And she couldn’t look away.

“He was fried,” Berto told her. “He was f*cked up, and he came right at me, with his crazy hair and his psycho eyes and … He jumped me, he tried to knock me over, he tried to take the gun, and it went off. And then he was dead.”

“You fired twice,” she whispered. “Aaron heard the gunshots.”

He shook his head. “I don’t remember that. I guess I must’ve, if that’s what he heard. But it’s really a blur. Although the trigger was always … sensitive, so …”

She believed him. Still … “Why did you take your gun?” she asked. “Why did you even have it with you?”

“I wanted to scare him,” Berto said. “Aaron.”

That she didn’t believe.

He corrected himself before she could call bullshit. “I wanted to kill him, but I wouldn’t have.”

“I think you would’ve,” she countered. “I think you were going to. Because I know you knew what your father was doing to me—probably right when you were loading that f*cking gun.” She could tell from his eyes that she was right. He had known. “And I think you brought Aaron there—to our place, our special place—to punish me even more.”

“Maybe,” he admitted.

“I consider myself lucky,” she said, “that I saw the real you, the ugly you, before I did something stupid, like marry you.”

Except even as she said those bitter, angry words, she had the sense that the boy she could still glimpse in this man’s eyes was, in truth, the real Berto Dellarosa. Even after all this time.

“Yeah, well, then, lucky you, right?” he said as he blinked, as he turned away from her, as the boy disappeared. But then he turned back, this man, this stranger, and said, “You know, I forgive you, Francine.”

She laughed her surprise, but he was serious.

“For not telling me, in advance, what you were doing,” he continued. “For not trusting me, long before that, with the news—and it was a knock-me-over news flash when I found out that Shel was gay. For assuming—ridiculously—that I really believed that you loved me, that I didn’t wake up every f*cking day and wonder what someone like you was doing with a piece of crap like me.”

His words made her want to throw up, filling her with a mix of anger and frustration and sorrow and despair. She honed in on the anger, using it to banish the less-useful emotions. “Do you forgive Davio, too?” she asked, her voice harsh. “When you’re busy being so generous?”

“Do you forgive a rabid dog for acting like a rabid dog?” he countered.

“F*ck you, Confucius,” Francine said. “You don’t forgive a rabid dog, you f*cking put it down.”

“Yeah, but Uncle Manny wouldn’t like that,” Berto said. “He feels responsible for Davio. The rabid dog is still Manny’s brother. You of all people should understand that, all those years you spent searching for Pauline.”

“Whatever,” Francine said as she led the way across the scarred and pitted concrete floor to the air-conditioned office where they’d get Berto into his blood-soaked bandages. “You want to think there’s a comparison between a child and her abuser, you go on and think that. But you’re full of shit.” She raised her voice. “Martell!”

“Yes, ma’am!” He was, as he’d promised, nearby, and as she looked into his eyes, she knew he’d heard everything. “Whatever you need. I stand ready to help.”

Francine had to look away. “Let’s do this thing,” she said.