“You okay, man?” Rick’s staring down at the crumpled napkin I have fisted tight in my hand. My knuckles are white. I toss it aside, scowling. This woman is having a seriously fucked up effect on me. I can’t afford to be this distracted by her. She’s consuming every single waking moment of my day, when I need to remain focused on the task at hand. No point in worrying about things that probably aren’t even going to happen, either. I’ve set up my guys for that one specific reason—to watch out for Lace and Sloane, and to keep them from harm.

“I want you to reach out to this DEA woman,” I tell him, brushing off my momentary freak-out. “I want you to ask her which bikers she’s interested in. I wanna know what information she’s got on me, and I wanna know when they plan on picking up Lacey.” I scribble my burner’s cell number down on another less crumpled though still grease- stained napkin and tuck it roughly into the top pocket of the tee Rick’s wearing.

The guy grunts his assent, although he’s clearly none too happy about it. His sandy eyebrows knit together as he considers speaking. After a short while he leans forward, saying, “Why d’you care about that piece of ass, anyway? She was sleeping with Georgio Ramerez for months. You know he ain’t too careful with his possessions. Word is Frankie Monterello had a go at her, too. You never struck me as the kind of guy to be scooping up sloppy seconds from anyone, Zee.”

In my head, I do something Dr. Walcott suggested back in Chino—a coping mechanism that I don’t normally bother to put into practice. I imagine reaching across the table, pressing my chest against the tacky Formica, digging my fingers into the nape of Rick’s neck, engaging the muscles in my arm and then slamming his face down into the table. His nose makes a sickening crunch and the explosion of blood follows right after. It’s vaguely satisfying. Like I said, I don’t do this very often; to imagine the action without the follow-through is counterproductive. The goal is usually to vent the anger away from my body, whereas just thinking about it frequently directs my rage inward instead of outward. But right now I can’t draw attention to myself or to the fucktard sitting across from me by committing to the action. No, now’s the time for a cool head. Rick knows his question was a mistake, though. I just fix him in my gaze and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Just wondering,” he adds.

“Can be very detrimental to the health, I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, well—” Rick looks around, as if searching for a reason to leave. He doesn’t need an excuse; our meeting’s over.

“Call that number tomorrow. With the information.” I get up and slide my aviators on, exiting the fast food place as inconspicuously as possible. Which ends up being pretty fucking conspicuous when you’re six foot three and built like a tank.

It’s not so much a sound that wakes me. It’s more an unshakeable, creeping sense of dread that settles over me like a suffocating blanket as I lie frozen still in bed. The house settles, creaking and sighing, wind teasing inquisitively at the window panes of my room, while I hold my breath, my heart galloping beneath my rib cage. Moonlight pours through the curtained floor-to-ceiling windows at the other end of the room, washing the swaying tree line beyond in a gilded silver hue. It lights the room, too, making the closet door, chest of drawers, small chestnut wooden blanket box and other small pieces of furniture easily visible.

Nothing out of place. Everything where it should be. Perhaps Lacey’s presence in the house, her just being here, sleeping in the guest room, is enough to make me nervy and on edge. I’ve always been able to do that—sense when I’m not alone, even in a house as big as this. It always leads to broken sleep. Yet somehow I know this isn’t that. It feels different. Awkward. Tense. Resigning myself to the fact that I’m not falling back to sleep, I fling back the covers from the bed and tiptoe silently from the room. I stagger to an immediate halt out in the hallway, stunned. Two men in black pants and T-shirts, mirroring my expression of surprise, hold between them the rising, struggling form of Lacey. The guy closest to the top of the stairs has a firm grip around her legs, which thrash against him uselessly. The other guy has his arms threaded underneath hers, lifting her but also expertly clamping his hand over her mouth at the same time. It doesn’t seem as though she’s screaming anyway so his efforts are probably unnecessary. Lacey’s eyes are gripped with a pure terror that grabs me by the throat and spurs me into action.

“What the hell are you doing?” I gasp. Pretty stupid question. It’s obvious what they’re doing; they’re kidnapping Lacey. The girl Zeth left in my care. The girl I said I would look after.

The guy wrestling to pin down Lacey’s flailing legs shakes his head menacingly at me. “Go back to bed, baby. Otherwise we’ll make sure to come back up here for you, too.”

“Put her down and get the fuck out of my house!” My voice quavers with a rage that surprises even me. The two men exhale in frustrated synchrony; they clearly don’t want to be dealing with me right now.

“You got a death wish, bitch?” the other one says. “You don’t wanna be interfering right now. Trust me.”

“Fuck it. She’s seen us now, anyway. We’re just gonna have to deal with her,” the other guy says, a malicious glint in his eye.

Lacey lashes out with one foot, managing to get it free, and for moment the two men are distracted as they struggle to right the wildly kicking leg. I do the first thing I think of, backing up into my bedroom and slamming the door, snapping the lock closed behind me. Lacey’s eyes are pleading as the barrier slams shut between us, and I beg her not to think I’m abandoning her. I’m really not. I just can’t get to the only offensive weapon—the baseball bat I keep by the front door—without having to pass them, so I’m going for the next best thing. My medical bag. I find it where I always keep it, in my en suite carefully perched on top of the toilet cistern.