“Jesus,” I said, though I’m not sure I spoke aloud.
“I started doing stupid shit to get their attention, but they never noticed. So I ramped it up. Stole a car when I was thirteen. Started breaking into people’s houses when I was fourteen—used to steal leftovers, so that was a plus, and about the only way I got a decent meal. Stole a car when I was fifteen. Smashed it. Got arrested. My dad bailed me out, and I didn’t even get grounded. Just told me to get my shit together and not be a stupid fuck.” He glanced at me, his expression dry. “That’s an exact quote, by the way.”
“What did you do?”
“Needless to say, I didn’t follow dear old Dad’s advice. I did not get my shit together. On the contrary, I think it’s safe to say I spiraled down. I started dealing drugs—stupid, but the money was good, and money bought me freedom and food.”
“You didn’t stay in drugs,” I said, my voice tight. God, don’t let him be dealing drugs; I’d seen the effects, and that was something I knew I couldn’t deal with on any level.
“No.” The word was fast and harsh. “I knew from the moment I got involved that it was all wrong. But this group of kids at my school—I clung to them because I wanted a family. Needed, even. And I went along.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Anyway, I had a girlfriend. Amanda. High school sweetheart, you know. Smart, pretty, sweet as she could be, and totally clean. When she learned what I was doing, she said I had to get out. That if I didn’t, she was going to call the cops.”
“Did she?”
He cocked his head. “I told her not to. That she needed to trust me. I had a way out, but I needed to go through with a deal we had set up. We’d scored a over a pound of coke at a bargain price, and we’d arranged a sale to some kids from the South Side—stupid—and if we didn’t go through, my buddies and I knew damn well they’d hurt us. Or worse.”
“Go on.”
“So we went to the meet.” He closed his eyes and drew in a breath. “And Amanda showed up—goddamn her.” His voice hardened with emotion and memory. “She showed up, told me to just walk away, but I couldn’t, of course. She was living in some fantasy that these gangbangers would just let us go. So I stayed—and she stayed—and then—”
He clenched his fist, then punched it hard into the air. “And then the cops came and it turned into a clusterfuck. Someone pulled a gun, and then there were shots fired and I looked over, and she was on the ground, her white blouse stained with blood. She was dead before I got to her.”
He closed his eyes, the pain of the memory almost palpable.
When he opened his eyes, they were full of anger and grief. “She was shot and she died and goddammit, if she’d just trusted me and not betrayed me to the cops, she would still be alive. Probably have a boring husband and three kids, but she’d be alive.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said gently, because that is what you say when someone is grieving.
His eyes were flat when he looked at me. “You know better than that. I didn’t have a gun, didn’t pull the trigger, but the law says it was my fault. And the law is right.”
“Felony murder,” I said under my breath, referencing the legal theory that holds culpable all participants in the crime. “I’m so sorry.”
“So am I,” he said. He tilted his head back, drew in a long gulp of air. “Anyway, I got sent to a scared straight camp. I met Evan and Cole there—which was about the only thing good the camp managed. That camp gave me the only real family I ever had.”
“I’m guessing you weren’t scared straight?”
“No,” he said, he drew in a breath, obviously calmer now. “But I realized I liked a cleaner approach to my adventures. I like puzzles and playing by my wits. And as I believe I already mentioned,” he added, with his eyes on me, “I like owning things that other people covet.”