The door swings open, and they file in, one by one, like actors who’ve been waiting in the wings for just this moment: Midnight, then Cyclone, then Blitz. They don’t look at each other; they don’t need to, their rhythm is so practiced.
Between them is June.
My sister.
She looks so much smaller than she did in the photograph I keep folded in my wallet, the one from her high school graduation where she’s outshining the sun in her gown. Now she’s in a torn hoodie, knees red from being dragged, wrists bound with zip ties so tight her fingers are blanched. Her hair’s been yanked up in a ponytail, and there are flecks of blood at the part. Bruises color her cheeks, and there’s duct tape across her mouth, but her eyes do all the talking — wide, wet, and begging. Cyclone keeps a bruising grip on her upper arm, his free hand permanently balled into a fist.
Blitz presses a gun to the side of her head like it’s casual.
I don’t breathe.
Midnight closes the door to my apartment behind him with his boot, slow and quiet. The click of the latch is the loudest sound in the room, a bullet casing dropping in a church. He looks around like he’s judging my furniture. Then he looks back at me; he’s searching for weakness, and if he can’t find it, he’ll invent it.
“Nice place,” he says, voice low and pleasant, like he’s about to close a mortgage deal instead of committing a felony. “Do you always keep it this tidy, or are you expecting guests?”
He smiles, but it’s only a facsimile — his mouth curls up, his eyes stay cold. No one laughs, not even Cyclone, who keeps flexing his jaw like he’s chewing through a mouthful of looseteeth. Blitz never looks away from June. There’s a silence so thick I hear my heart stutter, then double back on itself.
I make a show of exhaling, just to move air, to keep my hands from shaking. “Let her go.”
Midnight’s smile widens like I just entertained him. “Sit down, Gator.”
My legs feel like they’re full of sand, but I lower myself onto the edge of the couch. Every nerve in my body is screaming to fight, yet I keep my hands visible, palms splayed, the universal sign for don’t shoot. I keep my eyes on June. Her chest is heaving, and tears spill down the corners of her eyes and vanish into the tape. Cyclone shoves her down beside the coffee table, forcing her to her knees, his arm around her neck like a leash.
I want to tear the entire room apart.
I don’t move.
Midnight strolls closer and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as if we’re old friends catching up. He smells of smoke and motor oil and something rotten underneath.
“We need results,” Midnight says. “Fast.” He leans forward, voice dropping to a confessional tone. “You get me inside their operation. You get me details. Anything I can use to break them open, from the inside out.”
“Do you think I’m just fucking around here?” I say, irritation rising in my voice.
He tilts his head, amused, then shakes it, slow and indulgent, like a parent humoring a tantrum. “Not fucking around. Just… distracted.” He glances at the table, at June, at the pressed line of my mouth. “Work harder. Now, sit down and watch.”
Midnight glances at Blitz, who nudges June forward. Cyclone presses her down into the coffee table, forcing her to her knees, and a quiet, muffled whimper comes from her. Blitz then takes a knife from his jacket and flicks it open one-handed, a glintingsilver arc. He holds it up like a magician about to perform a trick, waiting for the drumroll.
I surge an inch off the couch before I can stop myself, but Midnight’s hand is already pointed at me, two fingers raised in a little ‘V.’
“Sit,” he says.
I sit. My hands curl into fists so tight my nails bite the skin, leaving little white half-moons as proof I’m alive.
Midnight’s voice turns soft. “You’re getting attached to this bartender. You’re getting attached, and it’s making you lazy and soft. You’ve forgotten what’s at stake.”
My throat closes up. I want to scream at him, tear the room apart, but I can’t risk a twitch. I say nothing.
Midnight watches my face like it’s a screen playing my secrets. “You’re starting to think you’re a good man. That you can have her and keep your sister and walk away clean. Don’t deny it. I can see it in your eyes.”
His words slide under my skin, cold and clinging, because he’s right. I am dreaming of escape hatches, of loopholes. Of a world where Molly doesn’t hate me and June doesn’t die. But every dream is a trap, and every trap is a lesson I learned too late.
He leans in closer, voice dropping.
“You can’t.”
He gives Blitz a nod. Blitz pulls June’s hand across the table and presses it flat, palm down, fingers splayed. She’s trembling so hard she can barely hold still. Cyclone pins her opposite shoulder, his forearm across her back. The knife hovers over her pinky, the dull side pressed into the skin.
Midnight’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You know what I love about fingers, Gator?” He gestures at his own hand, flexing each digit in slow sequence. “Most people think you need all ten. You don’t. You can do just fine with seven, or even five, if you’re clever.”
