“They got into your mom’s lab in Stanford,” said Peter. “They put you into their car on a busy street. These people do whatever they want.”
June hopped out, but left the Escalade running. “I’ll just walk past,” she said. “I won’t stop. But I’m going.”
Peter scrambled out to follow her. “Lewis, can you pick us up on the other side? Maybe they won’t be expecting that.”
“Done,” Lewis said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Look for me on the next block.”
They walked down the opposite sidewalk, through knots of spectators and policemen watching the firefighters continue to spray water on the smoking remains.
Leo Boyle’s empty shell of a house had become a wet pile of charcoal and ash settled into the heat-cracked foundation. Only the smoke-stained chimney still stood, towering improbably over the ruin. All that ancient bare wood, dry as bone, coated in fresh paint, just waiting for a match.
June’s garage apartment behind it was nothing but a smudge on the concrete slab.
Peter allowed himself only a moment to look at the house. The rest of the time, he had his head on a swivel, looking for anyone who didn’t belong. June tried to stop, but he put his hand on her elbow and said into her ear, “Get a good look, but keep walking. Lewis will be waiting for us.”
“Fuck them,” she said, her face dark. “That was my home.”
But she kept walking.
Three houses past the police perimeter, a familiar scraped-up BMW was angled into a parking spot. It faced the wrong direction, with two wheels on the curb. One corner of the front fender was newly crumpled into the trunk of a big maple. Four tickets were stacked under the wiper. The house wasn’t the only thing ruined.
“Wait,” Peter said, and nudged June’s elbow.
June saw the car. “Fucking Leo,” she said, and stalked forward. Boyle was curled up in the back seat with his jacket as a pillow and his hands tucked between his thighs like an oversized five-year-old. Across the floor lay a scattered mess of translucent lollipop wrappers.
June yanked open the door. “Leo.” She thumped him in the chest with the butt of her fist. “Leo. Wake the fuck up.”
Boyle blinked myopically up at her. “June? What are you doing here?” His lips moved in a tentative smile.
“Who are you working for? Why did you pick me?”
The smile fell away and he looked like a rat in a trap. “What? June, what are you talking about?”
“Let me help.” Peter stepped past her and grabbed Leo by the front of his shirt and dragged him mewling out of his car and onto the wet grass behind a row of evergreen shrubs, out of sight of the police. He was heavy and soft like an animal bred for slaughter. Peter’s ribs gave a twang with the effort.
“Who do you work for, Leo?”
Boyle was scared and breathing hard. “Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Peter put a knee on the kid’s chest and backhanded him across the face. It was like kicking a puppy. He didn’t like it, but he needed the information.
“Why is June’s picture on your computer? Why do you have a Stanford ID in your office? Who set you up in that house?”
Boyle’s face was bright red now. “Ow, dude, that hurts.”
Peter backhanded him again. “It can get a lot worse, Leo. Who set you up in that house?”
“What are you talking about, it’s my house.”
But his eyes slid to one side as he said it and if Peter had any uncertainty, it was gone now. He pinched the kid’s nose between the knuckles of his first and second fingers and squeezed. Boyle’s eyes filled with tears. Peter worked the nose back and forth. It would hurt like hell but wouldn’t do any real damage. “Tell me the truth, Leo. Who set this up?”
Boyle began to cry and the words tumbled out. “This dude, man, I took some money from his bank account. I bought his password online, I thought it was just this random thing. But somehow he tracked me back to my home computer and threatened me with the cops. I didn’t want to go to jail, man. Dude bought this house, told me to pretend it was mine.”
Pretend it was mine came out sounding like Preted it was mide. Boyle’s chest heaved under Peter’s weight.
“She’s his daughter, okay? I made him prove it, he sent me a picture of her when she was like fifteen.” He looked at June. “You were on snowshoes and you wore a long red-and-white-striped stocking cap.”
June flinched visibly. She knew the picture. And where it had come from.
Boyle kept talking, eyes flicking from June to Peter and back. “He said he couldn’t visit you, he was disabled and couldn’t leave the house, he was worried about you, okay? He said I was doing a good thing.”
“What about the picture on your desktop?”
“He sent me that one, too, so I’d know what she looks like now. I never even met the guy. I don’t even know his fucking name.”
Peter let go of Boyle’s nose and looked at June. Tears were running down her face, too.
“I trusted you,” she said fiercely. “I thought you were my friend.”
“I am your friend,” Boyle sobbed. “I was looking out for you. He’s your dad.”