The day hadn’t started so well, with the arrival of James’s package. Yet what could have ruined it did exactly the opposite. He’d watched Olivia push the file aside, utterly uninterested. That’s when he decided to take a step he would once have considered as implausible as asking someone up to his apartment. He’d sorted those piles and waited for a reaction that never came. She didn’t care. He’d given her enough to ruin him, and she’d only processed the information and set it aside.

That was the point at which he realized he could invite her up to his apartment. On the drive, he’d imagined what it would be like. He’d pictured her at the window, drink in hand, then curled up on his sofa, talking with him into the night, forgetting that she’d had plans to see Ricky. She hadn’t admitted she did, but he’d noticed her surreptitiously texting. Telling Ricky she wouldn’t make it right after work. Then that she wouldn’t make it for dinner. That she might not make it at all.

That had pleased him more than it should. Not for the obvious reasons. He was very good at distancing himself from those feelings, and having resolved to do so with Olivia, he dispelled any stray thoughts with the reminder that he’d lose her if he went there. So he wouldn’t.

As for her relationship with Ricky … it felt like a betrayal. It wasn’t, of course. But he’d spent so much time with Olivia, they’d shared so much, that the thought that she’d been involved with Ricky, and he’d never realized it, had been … unsettling.

At least Ricky had no problem with Gabriel’s relationship with Olivia. Gabriel could be insulted that Ricky didn’t see him as a threat, but Ricky was right—if Olivia wanted to be with someone else, she would be.

He liked Ricky. He trusted him to treat Olivia well. He trusted him to make her happy. Which made the whole situation very uncomfortable.

But tonight, it had been fine. Olivia had been coming back to his apartment, and then …

And then.

Again, he could blame the wine. It wore off, and he’d lost his nerve. Again, that was more excuse than truth. As they’d neared his apartment, he’d realized how big a chance he was taking. How he could ruin what they had. And for what? She’d been fine with not visiting his place.

If he couldn’t leave well enough alone, why hadn’t he just gone through with it?

He walked into the bathroom and looked around, seeing nothing that would pique Olivia’s curiosity. Everything a guest could need was within sight: towels, soap, even extra toilet paper. She wouldn’t have snooped. Even if she did … He opened the bathroom linen closet and saw towels and backup supplies. Nothing out of the ordinary—unless she pulled out the extra towels and looked behind them. And then …

Coke. Stacks of it.

Not cocaine, of course. Just cans of soda. If she did see that, she’d only tease that he must have found a really good sale or that it was his emergency caffeine for late nights.

And the rest?

If she went into his kitchen and dug into the cupboards, she’d find stacks of other canned goods, mostly beef stew. She’d joke that he should stop shopping at Costco, or that he must really like Coke and canned stew.

The truth? He could live happily if he never drank another Coke or ate another bowl of canned stew. Living on the streets, those had been his staples. Coke was cheap energy. Beef stew was protein and vitamins.

He could say that he kept caseloads of both as a reminder of how far he’d come. That was bullshit.

He had other stashes, too. Money, for one. A hundred thousand dollars in cash, secreted in various locations throughout the apartment. Other valuables as well, just in case. Then there were weapons. Guns, knives, a baseball bat … Olivia’s gun had come from here. He wouldn’t miss it. He never carried a weapon. He just had them. In case.

In case of what?

The apocalypse? Nuclear war? Biological attack?

At least those would make some measure of sense. His reasons had no basis in rational thought. He had these things because some deep-rooted, impossible-to-uproot part of his psyche required them, like a child with a security blanket.

He’d spent years on the streets. Years when he’d guzzle Coke and eat cold stew from a can. While other street kids dreamed of hot meals and warm beds, his fantasies were simple. He wanted enough to eat. In a cruel twist of irony, his body decided it needed its tremendous growth spurt at a time when he could least afford it. There’d been months when hunger seemed to be the driving force in his life.

Money solved the food problem, obviously, and it could also provide that more elusive of creature comforts: shelter. He could usually scrape together enough to rent a place in the worst of winter, but he spent the summers wherever he could find a safe haven. He had to save for college. That was the only way out of the situation. His golden ticket. With a degree, he could have a legitimate, steady source of income, not spend his life looking over his shoulder for the law, like most Walshes. To get to college, though, meant going through high school, which meant conning his way in with a false address and then showing up every day in decent clothing, with decent supplies, so teachers wouldn’t question his home situation. It also meant squirreling away money for college. So there was never enough for food, and he’d dreamed of a day when there would be.

As for the weapons, that was another problem altogether. Before those growth spurts made him an unpalatable target, he’d woken too often to a knife at his throat. He’d stolen a blade of his own only to have it turned against him. After that, he settled for hiding the bulk of his money and keeping only a few small bills on him. Then he started growing, and they mostly left him alone. Mostly. No matter how big he was, he couldn’t fight three armed punks who really wanted the twenty bucks in his wallet.

There were other dangers in the world, too, ones his size offered no defense against. There’d been a girl. His first. Just a street kid. She traded sex for protection. Nowadays, he’d never take advantage of a woman that way, but at seventeen, if a girl was offering it … yes, he’d taken it. Right up until the night he woke with a knife poised a lot lower than his throat, as her real boyfriend helped her steal a thousand dollars of his college savings—and all of his pride.

It was a mistake he never made again. Sex was an instinct, like hunger or thirst, one to be dealt with but controlled, so it would never again pose a threat to the pursuit of his goals. Keep his eyes on the future. Don’t get distracted. Slow down to admire the scenery and the world will overtake you. Or devour you.

So he had the Coke and the stew and the money and the weapons. And it all added up to one thing: fear. It didn’t matter how old he was or how big he’d grown or how successful he’d become. He was safely up here, above the city, behind locks and a security system, and there were still nights when he bolted awake, heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe. The only thing that helped was knowing everything he needed was here, everything he hadn’t had half a lifetime ago.

Olivia admired him for overcoming his past. He could see it in her face when the subject arose. It had taken him to a level in her estimation that “Gabriel Walsh, attorney-at-law” could never reach. He’d come from the streets and had a million-dollar condo before the age of thirty. That spoke to her of strength. Of victory.

And this? The Coke and the stew and the money and the weapons? They told a very different story. They said that Gabriel Walsh hadn’t sailed out of that life unscathed. The frightened and hungry kid who’d lived on the streets wasn’t gone. He was hiding up here, with his security blankets.

There was no reason for Olivia to know that. What he presented to her wasn’t a false front. She was happy with the ninety percent of him that she saw, and that’s what he wanted. Olivia to be happy.