There’s nothing. Just paint-splattered tarps and the duffle bags that I can’t hope to unzip without Du Pont noticing.

Then he takes another corner, and I hear a rattling sound. A screw rolling around on the bare metal floor of the van.

It’s difficult to reach it. I try to squirm in that direction an inch at a time so Du Pont doesn’t see. I have to back toward the screw so I can grab it in my hands. Meanwhile, it keeps rolling away again, right when I’m about to reach it.

Du Pont starts fiddling with the radio. I take the opportunity to push against the wheel well with my feet, shoving myself back in the direction of the screw. My fingers skate over it, numb from being twisted up behind me and bound too tightly with the zip ties. I grab the screw, drop it, then grab it again. I clutch it tight in my fist, glancing nervously up at Du Pont to make sure he didn’t notice.

He finds his station and sits back in his seat with a sigh of satisfaction. Billy Joel pours out of the radio, loud and eerily cheerful. Du Pont starts to hum along, still off-key.

I grip the screw between my thumb and fingers. Twisting my hand as best I can within the bounds of the zip tie, I start to saw at the edge of the plastic, slowly and quietly.

38

Dante

I take Henry back to my house. We drive up to the ancient Victorian, surrounded by trees that have mostly lost their leaves, the grass so thickly carpeted that you can barely see green between the drifts of red and brown.

The house looks creepy in the dark. The old woodwork has darkened with age, and the leaded glass barely shows the light shining out from inside. There aren’t many lights burning anyway—only the one in our housekeeper’s room, and my father’s.

“Do you live here?” Henry asks, nervously.

“Yes. So does your grandfather.”

“Grandpa Yafeu?” he frowns.

“No, your other grandfather. His name is Enzo.”

I drive down into the underground garage. It smells of oil and gasoline, which aren’t unpleasant scents under the right circumstances. At least down here it’s brightly lit and clean. Nero has always been tidy, if nothing else.

Henry looks around at all the cars and motorcycles.

“Are these all yours?” he says.

“Mostly my brother’s. He likes to fix them up. See that one over there? It’s sixty years old. Still beautiful, though.”

“It looks funny,” Henry says, looking at the bubbly headlights and boat-like length of the old T-bird.

“Yeah,” I agree. “It does.”

I take Henry upstairs into the kitchen. I’m surprised to see my father sitting at the little wooden table, drinking a mug of tea. He looks equally surprised that I’ve appeared with a child at my side.

“Hello, son,” he says, in his deep, rasping voice.

“Papa, this is Henry,” I say.

“Hello, Henry.”

“Hi,” Henry says, shyly.

“Do you want some tea, or cocoa?” Papa says. “I think Greta has the kind with marshmallows . . .”

“I like marshmallows,” Henry says.

“Let me find it.”

Papa gets up from the table, shuffling around the kitchen, searching the cupboards. He never cooks anything himself, so he doesn’t know where Greta keeps anything.

He’s wearing a clean, pressed dressing robe over striped pajamas. His slippers are leather, and likewise clean and new. My father never let himself go physically, no matter how destroyed he was after my mother died. He still put on his dress shirts with the French cuffs and the cuff links, his three-piece suits and his oxfords. He gets his hair cut every two weeks, and he spends thirty minutes shaving every morning.

The only part of him that grew wild is his thick gray eyebrows, that hang heavily over his beetle-black eyes.

He was a big man, once—not as big as me, but physically imposing. He’s shrunk down over the last five years. Lost weight and height. He’s as intelligent as ever, though. I’ve seen him beat Nero at chess, and that’s not easy to do.

He finds the cocoa, then heats milk in a saucepan on the stove. We have a microwave, but he’s never trusted it.

“Where did you come from, boy?” Papa asks Henry, not unkindly.

“We were living in Los Angeles for a while,” Henry says. “Before that, we were in Spain.”

“Who’s we?”

“Simone is his mother,” I tell Papa.

Papa pauses in the act of spooning cocoa into a mug. His eyes meet mine. He looks over at Henry, more carefully this time. I see his gaze combing over Henry’s height, his hair, his eyes, the way he slouches in his chair at the little kitchen table.

“Is that right?” my father says, softly.

“Yes,” I nod. “That’s right.”

Papa pours the hot milk into the mug and stirs. He carries it over to Henry, taking the seat across from him.

“I’ve known your mother a long time, boy,” he says. “I always liked her.”

“She’s famous,” Henry says, sipping his cocoa. The foamy milk leaves a little mustache over his top lip. That makes him look especially like a Simone—a very specific and precious memory I have of her, from a long time ago. I press my thumb and index finger into the inner corners of my eyes, turning away from him for a moment, and breathing deep.

“She’s a very beautiful woman,” Papa nods. “I was married to a beautiful woman myself, a long time ago.”

“Papa,” I say. “I have to go out again. Can you take care of Henry? He can sleep in my room.”

“I can,” my father nods. “He doesn’t look tired, though. Henry, are you tired?”

Henry shakes his head.

“What do you like to do for fun?”

“Do you have any board games?” Henry asks, eagerly.

“I have a chessboard. Have you ever played chess?”

He shakes his head.

“I’ll teach you. After we finish our drinks.”

I step into the living room, out of sight of Henry and my father. For the hundredth time I check my phone, to see if Du Pont has texted me yet. Nothing. No missed calls, either.

It’s almost midnight. In seven hours I’m supposed to meet Du Pont god knows where, to stop him from killing the woman I love. And I don’t have a fucking clue how I’m going to do that.

My phone rings in my hand, startling me so badly I almost drop it.

“Yes?” I bark.

“You sound stressed, Deuce,” a drawling voice says.

“Fucking hell, Raylan!” I cry, inarticulate with surprise.

“I got your message.”

I don’t stop to explain—I rush right in.

“I need to know everything you know about Christian Du Pont. He’s a fucking psychopath. He—”

Raylan interrupts me. “Why don’t I just tell you in person?”

“What do you mean?”

“I caught a transport into Chicago. We’re on the tarmac right now. You can come pick me up, or I can take a cab.”

“You’re here? Right now?”

“You better believe it.”

My whole body goes limp with relief.

I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do. But if anyone can help me, it’s Long Shot.