Chapter 8: The Guest Cut

I sat up in his bed and pulled the sheet to my chest.

"Say that again," I said.

"The man who shot at us has been seen with Carl," Boone said. "Twice. At a bar on Troost where the Gallow Kings drink."

"Who saw them?"

"Hank's cousin tends bar there. He knew your stepbrother's face from the video, because everyone does now."

I closed my eyes.

Carl had lived in my spare room for six months.

He had eaten my groceries and borrowed my car and, three weeks ago, asked me for two hundred dollars until Friday.

"He's in debt," I said. "He's always in debt. He bets on football."

"To the Kings?"

"I don't know. I never asked."

"Then we need to ask," Boone said.

"I'll go to the apartment right now."

"No."

"Boone."

"If we go in, they know we know," he said. "The Kings are waiting to see what we do. I want them to think we're scared and bleeding, not hunting."

"That's a plan for a man who has done this before."

"I have."

I looked at him in the lamplight.

He lay on his back with one arm behind his head and the black bird tattoo rising and falling on his ribs.

I wanted him again, and I wanted to hit him, and I wanted to ask how many women had lain in this bed and heard him say that.

I did not ask.

"My two nights are up tomorrow," I said instead.

"I know."

"I'd like to stay another week."

"You can stay as long as you want."

"One week," I said. "I'll tell you when it's over."

"Deal," he said, and he pulled me down against his side.