"Jesus," he said to himself, wiping his palms on his jeans. The sun burned through the windshield, sparkles of heat spots on the dusty dashboard. The sinking in his gut was replaced by an acid burn. Those men had been involved in the murder of his brother, had tried to kill his nephew. Now they strutted in the sun of a weekday afternoon, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

He realized his teeth were clenched, his jaw sore. A hundred yards ahead lay a corner market, the glass front covered with metal screening. He parked the Caddy in front of the door. Two kids who should've been in school hit him with murder eyes, but he glared back, chest forward. Held the gaze as he stalked past, daring them to move.

The market was dirty linoleum and fridges of beer. A sign on the inch-thick Plexiglas protecting the counter read: LOOSIES, 50 CENT, with a drawing of a cigarette. The back cooler had Coke and Pepsi but also orange and grape pop, brands he didn't recognize. No Gatorade, so he settled for a Mountain Dew.

Back in the sunlight, the kids stood where he'd left them, one on the payphone, the other beside, a wooden match clinging to one moist lip. The sun felt good on Jason's back and neck, so he leaned against the side of the car and stared down the road, watching cars come and go.

Sweet as the soda was, it couldn't wash out the bitter. With Michael gone, he was protector and maybe – Jesus – father to Billy. That last was too scary to contemplate. Better to focus on the first part, on dealing with the people hunting them. The Worm laughed from his belly. Some protector he was turning out to be so far.

A police car pulled into the weed-cracked parking lot. Jason glanced over, then at the two kids on the phone. Their shoulders were up, necks rigid with the stiffness that came of trying to act calm. The one on the phone hung up, and they started to strut away.

"Hey." The cop spoke through the open window, his voice commanding, a practiced tone. "Scooby, right?"

The boys froze, then slowly turned. Hesitated, then strolled over to the squad car like they were doing a favor. "Yeah."

"How's it going?"

"S'aight." Scooby slid the matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other. His friend kept glancing around, like he was hoping they weren't being seen.

"You know we found Li'l Cisco out back of St. Francis's?" The cop cocked his head. "Somebody shot him in the face."

"Ashes to ashes."

"Yeah." The cop smiled. "You hear anything about who was gunning for him?"

"Nah, man."

"Come on. He was your boy, right? Help me out." The cop glanced around, gestured Scooby closer. The kid looked back at his friend, then put his hands on the car, and leaned in. The other cop, a square-jawed woman with the placid expression of someone who did this every day, sized Jason up through the windshield.

She reminded him of Cruz, the way she'd interrogated him yesterday. Just as he'd been about to lose it, she'd eased up. Told him she would work all the angles, talk to the gangs, try to pick up Playboy. It'd surprised him, the idea of this five-five Latina questioning gangbangers on the street. She had some fire.

And then, as he watched Scooby listen to the cop, saw the way his buddy rocked from foot to foot like he needed to piss, an idea hit Jason square and center, made him almost drop his drink.

It was more than a long shot. It was pretty well preposterous.

Jesus, what a ballsy play that would be.

And realized he was smiling.

January 11, 1988

She knows her body will never be long and willowy, knows she will never have shampoo commercial hair. But it doesn't matter, because now, a month past her fifteenth birthday, Elena Cruz is a woman of the world; she is dating a high school senior, and tonight her mother is out of town.

She does not write "Elena Vaughn" on scented paper, or draw crabbed hearts with EC + EV scrawled in the center, but her dedication is complete. She has tracked Eric Vaughn's slouch through gray hallways, thrilling in his surliness, in his unkempt clothes and his crude tattoo.

That he demands they keep their love a secret she chooses to find romantic. It's not that he's cold; he is just wounded, in a way only she can heal. True, he is in a rush that makes her nervous, always trying to put his hands where she isn't ready to have them. But that's proof how badly he needs her.

This is love, and love triumphs. Every story says so.

And she reminds herself of that when she opens her front door to find not only Eric, but his friend Steve. Reminds herself again when she realizes they are drunk. She even tries to believe it is love that makes dark fire flash in Eric's eyes.

But it isn't love that tears her sweater. And it isn't love that laughs as Steve yanks at her belt.

And as she watches beautiful Eric Vaughn unbuckle his pants while his best friend holds her from behind, she sees that he knows he has already crossed a line and is determined to make the most of it, more drunk on the moment than the stolen booze. That she is no longer even a person, but merely something he wants.

And so she stomps on Steve's foot and twists free. Grabs the cordless phone and dials the police from the bathroom. And waits, shivering, in her panties – the pretty pair she had worn special, that she wanted him to remove for the first time, when she planned to give what he only wanted to take.

Her mother, with a look of bone-weariness, had once told Elena Cruz that one thing she'd learned was that you should never have more children than arms.

Now, as she watched Keanna bounce a baby on one leg, use her free hand to undo her middle son's jacket, and simultaneously yell at her oldest to leave the dog alone before he got himself bit, it occurred to Cruz that Keanna might have benefited from that same advice. Of course, looking at the blasted park where the nineteen-year-old sat with three other baby-mamas, there were probably a whole lot of things that the formidable Dulcinea Cruz could have passed along. Most likely accompanied by a lecture, several pleas to Jesus, and a paddling with a wooden spoon.

"I don't know nothing about no bars burning," Keanna said, and then held her baby up to the sky, making cooing noises.

Cruz glanced at Galway, who rolled his eyes. She said, "Mind if I sit?"

"They say it's a free country."

Galway chuckled at that, crossed his arms in front of his chest. As Cruz sat on the cement bench, the middle kid, maybe four years old, looked at her with huge eyes. She waggled a finger and he smiled, a sudden devious thing like he'd stolen it, and then turned away quickly and buried his face in his mother's knee. "How you holding up?"

"The phone got turned off." Keanna smiled at the baby. "Ain't you just perfect," she said, and the baby made a gurgling sound. "Mama lost her job."

"Rondell isn't giving you anything?"

Keanna looked at her balefully. "Rondell was daddy to Lawrence." She jerked her head toward the fence where the oldest boy was petting a dog the wrong direction. "He ain't been around since Spider an' me got together."

Cruz nodded, said sure, sorry, she'd forgotten. Hard to keep up sometimes. A low-rider rolled down the block, music pouring out, and one of the mothers hopped up and ran over to it, looking like the seventeen-year-old girl she was.

"Anyway, what you care? You gonna pay the bills?"

"Spider went down on a possession charge, right?" Cruz shrugged. "I could talk to the board for him. Make sure he gets a parole hearing soon."