I could have had that guy in the Dumpster with the rest of the trash in under ten seconds. If Ivy wasn’t standing right there, I might have. But I had to step away instead, because taking him on would have caused a scene, and I need to be a ghost. So I climbed back into my car and waited on the street for hours, until I saw her little Honda whip around the corner and head home.

Now I’m back to tailing her, learning about her. I haven’t learned much, though, other than that she hovers on the abrasive side with everyone—not just me—and her body doesn’t stop swaying when there’s music playing.

And she’s not just some miscreant tagger, marring city streets with spray paint.

She’s one hell of a talented artist.

She also surrounds herself with half-wits. These guys . . . I shake my head. I’m guessing at least one of the three—probably the one with the shaved head whom they call Joker and who moves like a street brawler—has a criminal record. I don’t think she intentionally seeks them out. They just have common interests. Biker gangs that love to get tattoos at her uncle’s shop, local petty criminals she hangs out with when she’s spraying walls. Who the hell knows why Bentley said she associated with the IRA. There’s likely another coincidental connection.

The more I learn about her, the more I’m convinced that she has no idea what kind of trouble her uncle was caught up in and that she’s just a young and edgy tattoo artist who simply doesn’t want to settle down.

As I refocus my attention on her, I realize that perhaps that’s only what I want her to be.

She’s shed the light jean jacket she wore over here, revealing an oversize white tank top that’s thrown over a second, tighter black one. It’s a casual I-don’t-care look. But with her skintight black pants and her boots, it’s sexy as hell. All the more so because I’ve already had a good long look at what’s hidden beneath. She shouldn’t be dressed like that out here. I wouldn’t trust the guys she’s with, let alone the junkies in the shadows.

She’s not at all concerned, though. If she were, she’d be glancing over her shoulder frequently. But she’s in her own little world under the glow of the lanterns, working on a disturbingly accurate portrayal of the man in the inset of the newspaper article. Her uncle, a person she clearly loved very much. Her twiggy little arms, tense with effort, work tirelessly with sweeps of blues and purple shadows, until she’s managed to capture finer details of his eyes, nose, and mouth.

She climbs down from the stepladder and backs up, simply standing there. She’s admiring her work. Or maybe just thinking about him, about her grief. Reaching down into the shadows, her hand comes back with a small pink object. She unscrews the top and brings it to her lips to takes a swig. Booze.

“Dat’s da bomb! Like a boss, yo!” The fucking moron with blue hair and pants barely holding on to his skinny thighs walks over with his idiotic limplike swagger to stand next to her, slinging his arm over her shoulder. Why does she associate with him?

It’s moments like these—seeing guys like this—that I wish the American government took a page out of other countries’ rule books and forced every eighteen-year-old male into the military to work this level of stupid out of him.

Of course, I don’t really believe that because most of these men—boys—couldn’t face a day of war. It would break them, just like it broke the strongest of us.

“Fez . . .” She turns to glare at him. “You sound like a douche bag. You realize that, right?”

“Whatchu sayin’? Everyone loves the Fez!” He actually sounds offended. Good.

“Not everyone.”

“Then how come I got over five hundred thousand followers on my channel?”

“Because their brains haven’t fully formed yet.” She swats his arm off her and steps away. “And don’t touch me unless I tell you that you can.”

I smile. But I’m also on alert now, wondering how he’s going to react to such a low blow to his ego. Wondering how I’m going to handle just sitting here and watching it happen, because I can’t spring out of the shadows to save her.

He simply scratches the back of his head. Maybe he’s used to this level of abuse from her. Maybe he likes it. “That’s a good one of Ned. He would have loved that,” he offers, suddenly switching to standard English.

A pause and then, “Thanks.” Her voice softens instantly.

“I guess you’re cuttin’ it now?”

She drags the ladder over to the mostly blank canvas of wall beside him. “I’m just getting started.” Her lithe body climbs the steps to the top, to stretch on the tiptoes of her Doc Martens, reaching as far as she can with seemingly no concern about falling.

With a sigh of relief, I settle back against the wall with arms folded over my chest, curious to see what she’s going to come up with now. People so rarely surprise me anymore, but I have a feeling she might.

The latest song ends and a new one begins, with a stronger, more mesmerizing beat. While she needs to keep her hips and feet still for balance, her free hand begins waving and dipping with the rhythm as her other hand lays waste to the wall with large sweeps of black paint. It’s another face, I can tell. Apparently she has a thing for drawing faces, if this and her sketchbook at home are any indication.

“Hey. You got a light?” A raspy whisper calls out from my left, about ten feet away, where the guy has sat quietly for the past hour.

“No.”

He shuffles over, closer, until the pungent smell of him has my nostrils flaring. “How about a twenty, then?”

I don’t answer. While my patience can be infinite for a specific task, it’s almost nonexistent for late-night junkies trying to accost someone minding his own business.

“Come on, man!”

I should have expected this. They don’t like it when you ignore them.

It’s unlikely our voices will carry over the music, unless this junkie gets more irate, which is possible. Ivy can’t be so oblivious to expect that they are the only ones here, but if she discovers me, there’s no way to explain why I am, too.

“I just need a fix and I’ll be good. Just help me out with—”

His voice cuts out as soon as my fist delivers an uppercut under his jaw. I grab hold of his filthy body to ease it down carefully. He should be out for a while.

Hoping that earns me some peace, I continue watching Ivy work, until the face begins to take shape. A man, with black hair and a long, slender nose and square jaw. It’s hard to tell what color his eyes are from this distance, and the poor lighting, but I can tell they’re dark. It’s not until she begins spraying the outline of a short, sculpted beard that I realize who the man is.

She’s painting me.

My face, on the wall of this dilapidated, condemned building.

It shouldn’t please me, and yet it does.

I smile. I’ve gotten inside her head without even trying.

I’ve been trained to resist the urges of sleep, to push myself longer and further than a normal human being. I’ve survived on no more than four hours of rest per night for weeks at a time. Many nights, I rely on Ambien to drift off. But I’ve been awake for nearly two days now, aside from that short catnap in my car, and my eyes burn with exhaustion.

Still, I tail Ivy as she walks the length of Ocean Beach, her sketchbook tucked under an arm. The rising sun and quiet streets make it more difficult, but I manage to keep my presence unknown, because that’s what I’m good at.

She heads toward the shoreline and settles herself onto a crop of stones, giving the surfer in the distance a moment of her attention. He’s impressive enough to distract even me, navigating the treacherous swells of the outer sandbar with the expertise of a seasoned surfer. He’d have to be. These are some of the hardest waves to surf in the world, especially in prime season, which we’re deep in the middle of.