Nobody says anything for a second, and Brandt shrugs. “Fine, whatever.” He points at Carl, still halfway on the sidewalk, like he’s a pet dog. “Stay.”

Carl takes a step back, leaving me and Brandt in the back seat while Uncle Roy guns it through the main gates and back down the country road that leads us to the highway, heading south. There’s not a lot of small talk. Brandt stretches his legs and gets out his phone, checking his messages, looking at something on Twitter, sending a few texts. He seems totally relaxed and in charge of the situation. Without glancing up from his phone, he says, “So the library freak stood you up, huh?”

I swallow hard. “We’re just friends.”

“Dude, that’s pathetic.”

“What?”

“I can’t decide what’s worse, you crushing on some troll who paints her nails with black Sharpie, or the fact that you couldn’t even get her to show up at the dance.” Brandt turns to me, apparently serious. “You can’t let yourself get humiliated like this. You’re supposed to be a player.” He pronounces it “playa” in true white-boy hip-hop fashion. “You know what I mean?”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Trust me, it’s for the best,” Brandt says, and leans forward to Uncle Roy. “Hey, driver. How much longer is this going to take?”

“We’re almost there,” Uncle Roy says.

“Next time we’re taking my helicopter.” Brandt cranes his head forward again. “How long have you been working for this guy McDonald, anyway?”

Uncle Roy doesn’t answer.

“You know about his daughter?”

“I know she’s a very nice girl,” Uncle Roy says. “And if you got anything more to say about it, you can feel free to hop out of this car anytime.” His eyes flash in the rearview mirror. “Or I can toss you out on your ear—it’s all the same to me.”

Brandt smirks but doesn’t say anything.

It’s silent all the rest of the way to Lowell.

When Uncle Roy stops the car in the lot of the industrial park, Brandt sits in the back like he’s waiting for somebody to jump out and open the door for him. When nobody does, he opens it himself, extends one lanky leg, and steps out, then follows Uncle Roy and me toward the rundown office building.

“This is his base of operations?” Brandt shakes his head. “What a dump.”

Uncle Roy doesn’t say anything as we walk up the steps and into the second-floor lobby. I walk past the reception desk and enter the main workspace. Everything is in place, looking better than I could’ve hoped.

The guys that Uncle Roy brought up from Boston—Iron Mike, the Righteous Brothers, Lupo Reilly, Southie McLaren, Rudy Morales—are all sitting in front of computer workstations, guzzling energy drinks and talking on their phones. None of them even looks up at us as we walk by. Glancing down, I see lines and columns of code scrolling up the screens. Dad’s girlfriend, Rhonda, walks by with a pot of coffee in one hand and a cell phone in the other. In other words, everything looks perfect.

“Where’s Mr. McDonald?” Roy asks.

“In his office,” she says without breaking stride, and cocks her head at the closed door on the far side of the room before throwing a glance my way. “He’s already pissed at you for not showing up earlier.”

I frown. “Who, me? I told him where I was going.”

Brandt snickers. “Sounds like you’ve got some brown nosing to do, Will. Good thing you’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Come on,” Roy says, waving us to the back of the room. “Let’s hope he’s in a good mood.”

The back office is brightly lit and cleaner than the rest of the property, with a halogen lamp in the corner and fresh paint on the walls. Dad’s pacing behind the desk, talking on the phone. Next to an open laptop there’s a framed picture of Moira McDonald—a nice touch that I thought of myself.

Dad sees us step in, scowls, and holds up one finger. Brandt gives him an eye roll that is the exclusive province of American entitlement, but he still manages to stand there while Dad finishes talking.

“Yeah, well, you tell him I said we need to shave the extra one-point-one by tomorrow morning, or he’s cut off. Those exact words—that’s right.” He clicks off and jabs a finger at me. “Where the hell were you?”

“Mr. McDonald—” I start.

“Valerie tells me that you’ve been out of the office all day.” Dad turns to Roy. “And nobody says a word to me about it?” Finally he pivots to unleash his glare on Brandt. “Who’s this idiot?”

“Mr. McDonald,” I say, “meet Brandt Rush.”

Dad doesn’t say anything. He just stares at Brandt with a glare that could cut diamonds. Brandt looks back at him, then saunters forward a half step and picks up the picture of Moira from on top of the desk, holding it up by two fingers and keeping it at arm’s length.

“I’ve seen better pictures of her,” he says, and flicks his eyes up at Dad. “How’s your daughter doing, anyway, Mr. McDonald?”

Dad’s jaw tightens, and when he speaks, his voice is low and steady. “You want to put that down right now, my friend. Or you’re gonna lose that hand.”

“Hey, no harm, no foul.” Brandt drops the picture onto the desk, where it hits the surface with a clatter. “I’m just a concerned citizen. Wish her well, that’s all.”

“Moira finished her senior year at Andover,” Dad says, through clenched teeth. “She’s fine. Graduated with honors.”

“Yeah?” Brandt gives a big, theatrical yawn. “That’s too bad. Pretty mediocre school compared to Connaughton. Which means she probably fit right in, huh?”

“That’s it.” Dad turns to Uncle Roy. “Louie, haul this worthless piece of garbage out of my sight. And see that he falls down the stairs a few times on the way.”

Roy gestures. “Come on, kid.”

“I’m worth half a billion dollars,” Brandt says, not budging. He gives Dad a half-lidded smirk. “If anything happens to me, I promise you, you’re a dead man.”

“I’m all a-tremble,” Dad says, and nods to Roy. “You heard me—get him out.”

Uncle Roy reaches for Brandt’s elbow, and Brandt yanks it away. Roy hauls back like he’s about to swing at him, and that’s when I step forward to play my part.

“Mr. McDonald,” I say, “just hold on. Brandt only wants to place a bet.”

“A bet?” Dad says. “I run an online operation, you moron—and you bring him here to the office?”

“He wants to do it in person.” I shrug. “He’s old school that way, right, Brandt?”

Brandt doesn’t say anything, just stands there with his hands in his pockets. For a second the only sound is the noise from the main workspace outside Dad’s office.

Finally Dad sits down behind his desk and looks at Brandt without a trace of expression. I can tell that he’s sober, which means he’s handling this perfectly. I feel an odd thrill of admiration for him, even respect, an unexpected reminder of what he’s actually capable of when he’s bringing his A-game. His eyes remain on Brandt, and they are the cold, calculating eyes of a man with an operation to protect.

“How big a bet?” he says.

“Two grand,” I say. “He just wants to—”

“I’m not talking to you.” Dad is still staring at Brandt. “You know what my daughter said to me after you posted those pictures of her on Facebook, you degenerate piece of garbage? She said she wished she had never been born. That’s a direct quote. You know what that kind of humiliation feels like?”

“Yeah, well.” Brandt grins. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it? By the way . . .” He leans in, just a little, and lowers his voice slightly. “I’ve still got some copies of those pictures if you want ’em. Suitable for framing.”

Dad’s fingers are gripping the desk so tightly that I can see his knuckles turning white. I can also see the veins in his head now. He’s selling this so well that it’s a little scary.

“Two grand, Mr. M.,” I say. “Cash. It’ll be quick. Then we’ll be out of here.”