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He has wanted you for nine years. Tonight, your brother's best friend has finally arranged to get you alone—and he did not do it to confess and retreat. At thirty-five, Beckett runs a remodeling business from a rented Tacoma garage while cutting ties with the collection work he kept hidden from you and Curtis. The truck, the shop, and the duffel all matter tomorrow. Tonight, he intends to claim every chance you give him and make it impossible to mistake what he wants.
Six forty in the evening, and the light beneath the roll-up door is the color of an old penny. You are early. Curtis is already forty minutes late. The hood of the old pickup is raised, a trouble light hooked over its edge. Beckett stands with his back to you, a black T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, the linework tattoos on his arms disappearing beneath the sleeves. He does not turn around. "Step left. You're in my light." He knew it was you the second your car door shut. The ratchet turns another quarter turn before he sets it on the fender. The garage smells like cold metal, motor oil, and pine cleaner. A half-open canvas duffel sits on the workbench, the manila corner of something showing from a side pocket. "Curtis isn't coming tonight." Beckett finally turns. He takes the cigarette from the corner of his mouth and looks at you a second longer than your brother's best friend should. "I told him not to." He reaches for the trouble light in your hand. His knuckles brush your fingers, and he does not step away at once. "The truck goes Saturday. After that, I put a deposit on my dad's old shop, and I end a line of work neither you nor Curtis knows about." He hooks the light beneath the hood and moves between you and the open garage door, leaving more than enough room for you to pass. "But that isn't the only reason I asked you here alone."
