Just as I closed it, Amber called out to me. “What’d I say?”

I leaned against the door and repeated my earlier sentiment. “She didn’t mean that.”

He rolled his eyes with a soft laugh. “I know what she was trying to say. I’m not a moron.”

“Right. Sorry. But wipe that smirk off your face.”

“What smirk?”

I pointed to it. “That one.”

He tried to wipe it away with a swipe of his hand, to no avail.

“And just for the record, Amber does not —” I leaned in and whispered the next signs to him. “— fuck or give head.”

He cracked up again, doubling over before sobering and asking, “Do you think that’s how her teacher really taught her to say ‘I am very special’?”

I hadn’t considered that. “Probably not. Unless, of course, she worked her way through college as a call girl.”

His shoulders shook; then he paused, sobered, and looked to the side. I felt it, too. A heat wafting toward us. We both watched as Reyes topped the stairs, his gait like that of a panther. Every move full of purpose, every motion made with the dangerous grace of a predator.

His gaze virtually sparkled when it landed on me.

“Mr. Farrow,” I said as he passed.

He remembered Quentin. I could see recognition in his eyes. “Ms. Davidson,” he said before nodding at Quentin as he strode past. He went to his apartment, closed the door slowly.

“I can see him, too,” Quentin said, his signs guarded, his expression wary. “I can see who he is. What he’s made of.

“Made of?” I asked.

“He’s dark,” he said, suspicion permeating every word. “It surrounds him like a shroud of black mist. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Just like I couldn’t see my own light, I couldn’t see this perpetual darkness that surrounded Reyes unless he dematerialized and came to me incorporeally. But I’d been told about it before. Angel had mentioned it to me once. I thought he’d been exaggerating.

“Yeah, well,” I said, wrapping an arm into his, “he’s had a hard life.”

He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze off Reyes’s door. “What is he?”

After the conversation we’d just had, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know. He had been traumatized enough. But I didn’t want to lie to him, either. “I’m not sure I want to tell you,” I said, ushering him down the stairs.

He thought a moment, then said, “I’m not sure I want to know.”

9

Whoever is in charge of making sure I don’t do stupid shit is fired.

—T-SHIRT

I dropped Quentin off at the convent, said hello to all the sisters, played a quick game of Yahtzee, got my ass kicked, then headed back to Rocket’s place with a new piece of equipment lying across my backseat. If I couldn’t climb over the fence, I’d go through it.

I brought out the bolt cutters, which were much harder to use than I thought they would be. And they were heavy and bulky. What the hell? It looked so easy in the movies. Like pruning an azalea bush. But this was work. I should’ve bought gloves. My hands were so wimpy.

After finally making an opening big enough for me to squeeze through, I forced my head through first and realized I’d left several clumps of hair in the links and lots of DNA on the sharp edges I’d just cut. This was so not going as planned. I finally crammed my body through the fence, comparing the unpleasant experience to my birth, and found the basement window I always kept unlocked. I wanted to use the key I had, but all the locks had been changed. Whoever C&R Industries were, they would pay dearly for my blood loss.

I took out a flashlight and navigated the staircases of questionable worth.

Strawberry Shortcake appeared in the glow of my light. Strawberry, aka Becky Taft, aka Officer David Taft’s little sister who died when he was eleven, was a nine-year-old ball of fire who could teach Reyes’s dad a thing or two as far as I was concerned. I called her Strawberry because she was still wearing the Strawberry Shortcake pajamas she’d passed in. She stood with her fists on her hips, her long dark-blond hair hanging in tangles down her back, and I always thought if I actually liked kids, I might have liked her. Probably not, but it was a thought.

“Hey, pumpkin,” I said. “Where’s Rocket?”

“He’s hiding.”

“God, he loves that game.”

“No, he’s hiding because of you. He has to show you something.” She glowered at me accusingly.

I tried not to giggle. “Show me what?”

“Someone on the wall. He’s scared you’ll get mad at him.”

“Really? Well, now I’m totally curious.” Then I thought a moment. What if it was my name? What if the bolt cutter slipped and I’d accidentally cut my own throat and bled to death but I didn’t know it? That would suck.

“Can I brush your hair?” she asked as she led the way, her disposition doing a 180 on a dime. Kids. Can’t live with ’em. Can’t eat ’em for lunch.

Then I realized what she was asking. “No!” I shouted before reining in the surge of fear that overcame me to say in a nicer voice, “No, pumpkin, maybe next time.”

But it was too late. She stopped, crossed her little arms over her little chest, and whimpered like a puppy. Crap. That was all I needed. The SS following me around, tormenting me because I’d hurt her feelings. “Fine, okay, you can brush my hair when we find Rocket. But no scissors. I know what you did to your dolls.”