“That’s a lie in a lot of ways right now for you, Noah,” he said, a thin smile on his face. “I’m not looking for a laundry list, but you look … preoccupied.”

I spun the cold can between my hands, staring at it, but thinking of other things.

“I’m wondering if I’m wrong,” I said.

“Wrong?”

“In thinking about … doing this.”

“You mean taking this motherfucker out?” he asked, almost incredulous.

I drank some more of the soda, then looked at him. “Yeah.”

He stared at me for a moment, his eyes surveying me to see if I was serious or if he was missing my point. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the soda can dangling from his hand.

“Noah, here’s what I know,” he said, his voice lower than before, pronouncing each word carefully. “This asshole is partly responsible for your dad being in prison. He killed a woman who came to you for help and dumped her here, in your living room. He’s threatened your mother. And he killed Liz.” He held the can to his lips then pulled it away. “There is nothing right about keeping this guy around.”

“I don’t disagree with any of that,” I said, annoyed that he went for the easy points. “I get all that.”

“Then there’s nothing else to get,” he said, equally annoyed that I was looking at anything other than his points.

“Yeah, there is,” I said, concentrating on remaining reasonable. I didn’t want to fight with him.

He leaned back in the sofa and held out a hand. “Enlighten me.”

“The cops have everything they need to go find him,” I said. “Chances are they will.”

“Whoopee. Doesn’t mean they can arrest him, and even if they do, doesn’t mean he’ll be convicted.” He made a face. “And you think he gives a shit about going to jail? Probably like a vacation home for him.”

I could tell he liked countering my arguments. “Taking Keene out,” I said, measuring my words. “It’s crossing a line.”

“A line that he’s drawn,” Carter said, punching a finger in my direction.

I sighed and sank back into the sofa. Anything I gave him, he was going to find a way to spin it in favor of killing Keene.

“No offense, but it’s not like you haven’t done it before,” he said.

“Different. Way different,” I said.

“Really?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “How?”

“Nothing was ever planned out. Nothing was ever premeditated.”

“So as long as you don’t think about it ahead of time, it’s okay?” he deadpanned.

“In a way, yeah. But that’s not what I’m saying, and you know it,” I said, fidgeting and frowning.

“Then say it, dude,” he said. “Say what it really is. What’s really holding you back?”

I tilted the can back and finished the soda. I squeezed the aluminum between my hands, the condensation slicking my palms. “I know she would hate it. It’s the opposite of everything she believed in. I know that it would disappoint her like nothing else I’ve ever done. It would make me more like Simington than I want to be. And I could never take that back.”

I waited for his response, but he didn’t say anything. He stood and walked over to the glass door, one hand in the pocket of his shorts and one clutching the now-crushed soda can.

“I’ll buy that more than I’ll buy any of your other arguments,” he finally said. “I can understand that. But she’s gone, and you’re here. You’ll be the one who has to live with knowing that he’s still out there, that no matter what happens to him, he got away with it. And, yeah, to me, even if he’s arrested and thrown in a cell, it still seems like he gets away with it. Motherfucker would be a hero in prison for killing a cop.”

We were going around in circles, and it wasn’t doing me any good.

“And there’s one other thing,” I said.

He turned away from the glass. “What’s that?”

I stood and walked over next to him, my eyes fixated on what looked like a boiling ocean. “No matter what I do, nothing brings her back. Ever.” I watched several waves roll in and collapse into a mess of foam. “And I’m not sure anything else matters.”

SIXTY-ONE

“I need to get going,” Carter said. “Let me know what you decide.”

“Do my best not to disappoint you,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

He walked toward the front door and turned around. “You won’t disappoint me, Noah. Whatever you end up thinking is right. You have to do what’s right for you. You do that, I won’t be disappointed.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He nodded and opened the door.

The alleyway roared and the concussive force of an explosion sent both of us to the floor. I slammed my head against the leg of the dining room table.

I rolled over, gathered my bearings, and sat up. “You alright?”

Carter used the sofa to pull himself up. “What the fuck was that?”

Smoke filled the air and the doorway, but I didn’t see any flames. Something was on fire, though. We went out through the slider and around the boardwalk to the alley.

Sirens were already whining in the distance. We turned the corner to the alley.

Carter’s truck was a bonfire. Flames shot high into the air, black smoke billowing from beneath what was left. The skull and crossbones on the hood were unrecognizable.

“Was I supposed to be in that?” Carter asked.

Things are gonna start blowing up in your face.

That’s what Keene had said.

The first fire engine arrived and filled the alley with red and white lights. The firefighters got to work hooking up a hose, soaking the charred remains of Carter’s truck.

Cars didn’t just blow up in alleys. I knew it was Keene.

Maybe he thought he’d scare me off. He’d already figured out that going after the people in my life was more effective than coming directly at me. I hated that he somehow knew that. He was clearly threatened by the idea of Simington giving up information to me and he was striking out quickly and violently.

But he wasn’t scaring me off. He was forcing me to deal with him.

Staring at the smoke and fire and destruction that Landon Keene had brought to my life and feeling the ache that had taken up permanent residence in my gut, I knew my decision was made.

SIXTY-TWO

The fire department needed most of the day to clean up the alley. Carter waved me off when I offered him a ride home, mumbling something about the walk being good for his head. I felt guilty about the car, but relieved he hadn’t been in it. I’d already lost Liz. I didn’t want to lose my best friend, too.

I went to bed, thinking I’d make a run at Moffitt in the morning. I still wasn’t sure how that was going to work, but he was where I needed to start. And to start was better than to keep thinking.

But when I opened my door to leave the next morning, the media had discovered me.

A well-groomed Hispanic man was standing in my way, his fist raised, about to knock.

“Mr. Braddock?” he asked with a smile. “Cesar Grotillo, Channel Eight News. Do you have a moment?”

The knot in my stomach tightened like someone was yanking on one end of it. “No.”

“Russell Simington is your father. Is that correct?”

Now the knot seemed tied to a freight train.

“Are you aware that he is to be executed in two days?” he asked.

I said nothing.

“Mr. Braddock? Would you care to comment?” I slammed the door.

It happened four more times in the next two hours. I should have expected the attention. California had rarely followed through with executions since the state had reinstituted the death penalty in the early eighties. Any death at San Quentin was big news, and the media was diligent in finding anyone attached in any way.

I was attached.

And, now, with the media trying to capture every move I made, going after Keene had become even more difficult.

Carter showed up around noon. He walked in with a scowl on his face.

“What the fuck is going on out there?” he said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder to the alley.