“And Holloway?”

Steve stubbed out the cigarette, spit out the window. “Holloway just wanted to put her in a jar.”

“And she figured that out about him?”

“You should have seen him when she said she was leaving him for your father.”

“Angry?”

“Angry. Jealous. He pursued her hard, tried to change her mind, but three months later your folks were married. You came a year later. It was as sharp a rejection as I ever saw, and I don’t know that Holloway ever got over it.”

“But dad did work for Holloway. All those houses he built. Holloway was over all the time.”

“Your daddy sees good in all people. It’s part of what makes him so fine. But Holloway was just waiting to bury him.”

“Dad didn’t know?”

“I told him as much, but your daddy always thought he could handle him. He’s prideful like that.”

“Confident,” Johnny said.

“Arrogant.”

Blacktop slid under the truck. The fan belt made a sudden, screaming noise. “You work for Holloway.”

“Not all of us have a choice, Johnny. That’s a life lesson for you. Free of charge.”

Steve stopped the van at a light. In the distance, Holloway’s mall rose like a battleship. Johnny watched Steve’s face, and when he spoke, it was of his mother. “Did you want to date her?”

Steve’s eyes were as flat as a snake’s. “Hell, son.” The light turned green. “Everybody did.”

The parking lot was slammed, which reminded Johnny that it was Saturday. Steve parked near the employee entrance at the back. When he opened the door, his mirror splashed sun into Johnny’s eyes. “Come on,” he said.

“Can I wait in the van?”

“Too dangerous back here. Homeless. Drug abusers. God knows what else.” Johnny watched as Steve touched the objects on his belt: Mace, radio, cuffs. “Come on. I’ll show you something cool.”

Inside, a key card granted access to a narrow door, metal stairs, and a third-story hallway that led to an office marked SECURITY. Steve swiped his card and leaned a shoulder against the office door. “Kids never get to see this.”

The security office was large and complex, with a bank of video monitors that covered an entire wall. Two guards sat in black swivel chairs, hands on keyboards and joysticks, changing images on the screens, zooming in and out, observing. They turned as Johnny stepped in, then did a double take.

One of them was twenty-something and fat, with hair mowed short and a razor-burned face. His smile was at once awe filled and dismissive. “This the kid?”

Steve put a hand on Johnny’s back, propelled him farther into the room “My nephew. Sort of.”

The fat guard offered a meaty hand, and Johnny studied it warily before shaking it. “Good job, kid. Wish I could have been there.”

Johnny looked at his uncle, who offered two words. “Tiffany Shore.”

The guard made a shooting motion. “Pow.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Johnny said.

But the guard was eager. “You see this?” He whipped a newspaper from the counter. “Front page. Check it out.”

The picture was of Johnny, taken through the window as he sat in the front seat of his mother’s car. His hands still gripped the wheel. His mouth hung open, face shocked and empty. Blood sheeted everything, dark where it had dried, bright where it wept red on Johnny’s chest. Feathers and rattles shone black on his skin, the skull as yellow-wet as a stone soaked in honey. Tiffany angled across the seat beside him, sun so fierce on her face that it shattered in her eyes. Men with clean clothes and long arms reached through the door to pull her out, but she was fighting, mouth tight, fingers desperate on Johnny’s arm.

The caption ran below the photograph: “Stolen Child Found, Pedophile Killed.”

Johnny’s voice came in a choked whisper. “Where did they get this picture?”

“The security guard at the hospital took it with his cell phone. They’re using the same picture on CNN.” The fat guard shook his head. “Probably paid him a fortune.”

Steve stepped in front of Johnny and pushed the paper away. “He doesn’t need to see that.”

The guard shifted as he took in Johnny’s face, saw how shadows multiplied in the hollow places. “I didn’t mean nothing.”

“Is the boss in?” Steve interrupted.

The guard hooked a thumb at an office door but kept his eyes on Johnny. Johnny followed Steve’s gaze and saw a window and white blinds sheathed in dust. An eye peered out and the blinds snapped shut. “Shit,” Steve muttered. “Has he been looking for me?”

“Should he be?”

Steve shrugged, but looked nervous. “Anything exciting?”

“One shoplifter. Two D-and-Ds.”

Steve explained. “Drunk and disorderly.” He tapped Johnny on the shoulder and crossed the room. “Come here,” he said, and Johnny followed him past the bank of monitors to a wall of glass that was nine feet high and twice as long. The view was onto the Food Court. Steve tapped the glass. “Mirrored,” he said.

Johnny peered through the windows and could see everything spread out below: storefronts and food stands, escalators, people. The fat guard ambled up, cupped both hands and breathed deeply. “This must be what God feels like.” Johnny wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the comment, the sheer smallness of it.

Then he saw Jack.

Red-faced, humiliated, awkward-looking Jack.

He stood at the edge of the crowd, a small, tan boy with a shriveled arm and no meanness in his entire body. He stood, taking it, because fighting back would get him nowhere, and because walking away would imply that he actually cared about the shame that was being heaped upon him. His tormentors were seniors, lean, muscled kids with self-aware smiles.

Johnny cringed when he saw spit go down the back of Jack’s shirt; but his anger spiked when he saw Jack’s brother, who stood ten feet away and did nothing to stop it. He was surrounded by fawning girls, four at least.

Johnny pointed. “Do you see that?”

Steve leaned forward. “Gerald Cross? Yeah, I see it. The girls have been like that ever since he signed with Clemson. He’ll go pro in a year. His contract will be ten million, minimum.”

“Not him.”

“Then what?”

“Can I go down there?”

Steve shrugged. “Go. Stay. I’m not your daddy.”

Johnny pounded down the stairs, through the security door and into the crowd. He smelled pizza and scorched beef, the crush of overheated bodies and, somewhere, an unchanged diaper. He angled for Jack and heard his name whispered. Fingers pointed.

That’s the guy.

It took Johnny a minute to understand, but then he did.

The story was everywhere.

By the time he crossed the Food Court, a dozen people were watching him, but he didn’t care. One of the seniors was snapping rabbit punches at Jack’s bad arm, hitting beneath the meat of the shoulder, right where the hollow bone had the least protection. Jack was trying to hide it, but Johnny saw that his friend was about to cry.

Johnny bulled his way into the group and punched the senior as hard as he could. He connected with the kid’s mouth, felt whiskers, teeth, and the ripe softness of a burst lip. The guy stumbled left, caught himself, and his hands came up, fisted. He drew back to throw a punch, then recognized Johnny. “Holy shit,” he said.

Johnny stared at the startled brown eyes, the stained teeth, and the long hair spiked with gel. The kid spit blood and stepped away. “Damn freak.”

Johnny shook with rage, with a long year’s silence and with all of the things he’d repressed since waking in a hospital room stained red. The senior mistook the trembling for fear and started to smile, then looked over Johnny’s head at the suddenly watchful crowd. He lowered his hands, tried to laugh it all off. “Easy, Pocahontas.”