Page 27 of Into the Fire

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Evan said. “Not anymore.”

Max gave a hoarse laugh edged with self-loathing. His gaze was loose, unfocused.

“So what?” Evan said. “If you do this thing for Grant, it’ll prove you’re a good person?”

“No,” Max said. “It’ll prove I’m worth something.” His eyes moistened, and he looked quickly away. “I thought, just one time, it might be nice not to let anyone down, that’s all. It sounds so fucking juvenile, but…”

“What?” Evan said.

“I just … I could use a win, you know?”

His voice had grown husky, and for a moment Evan thought he might actually break down under the strain of it all. But then he seemed to shake off the thoughts and reset himself. “The other options,” he said. “What are they?”

Evan gave a nod, glad to move on. “You have anywhere you can go? Anywhere safe?”

“Not really,” Max said. “I mean, my dad’s still around, but my family’s not really … Like I said, we’re not really close.”

“Family’s not an option,” Evan said. “We can’t put them at risk.”

“Not that we have to worry about that,” Max said. “Them sticking out their neck for me, I mean.”

Evan said, “Okay.”

Max pressed his palm to his forehead. “Shit,” he said. “There is one— No, never mind. Shit. Okay. There might be one option but it’s…”

“It’s what?”

“Hard.”

Evan stepped on a cushion on the floor, the knife slash gaping. “Harder than this?”

Max swallowed. The last bit of color had drained from his face.

“Yes,” he said.

13

The Badness of My Heart

The cottage in the gently rolling hills of South Pasadena was tucked behind an ivy-covered brick wall. The streets were wide here, the sunshine plentiful even in the late afternoon, even in November. Polished fenders, moist green lawns, spit-shined windows—it all had a big-ticket gleam.

Evan had taken every precaution approaching the residence, but it was evident that there was nothing on this patch of neighborhood but an excess of money. Beside him Max shuffled from foot to foot.

The doorbell gave a resonant chime that belied an interior far deeper than what the cutesy stone-and-stucco façade implied. Evan felt the key chain—and the thumb drive it hid—pressing against his thigh through the tactical-discreet pocket of his cargo pants, right beneath one of his backup magazines.

Footsteps sounded.

Max said, “Maybe I should just wait in the—”

Violet opened the door.

She was as striking as Max had described. Glossy black hair lay pronounced against her pale skin, a single forties wave peekabooing one eye. Bloody red lipstick. Sharp, intelligent irises the color of espresso.

She wore leggings and a gauzy loose sweater over a fitted midnight-blue shirt. Instinctively she tugged at her cuffs, covering her wrists with her sleeves, but not before Evan saw the telltale marks. Thin raised scars, white as milk, like the branches of a dead tree.

Her eyes sharpened further, her brow twisting. For an instant her face wore a bare expression of unadulterated hurt, and then it hardened, locking down the softer emotion.

“Get him off my property,” she said.