Help me, Cage had begged on the phone. As if I was the Church. As if I could spare him from anything. As if I’d want to.
“Sit.” I gestured with the gun. My voice snapped off of the cinderblocks, echoed through the open door and down the empty corridor, growing more distorted as it traveled. Eerie, the way things come back on you.
The seat in the room I’d walked him into was an old high-backed dentist’s chair, the leather cracked, the fabric beneath the leather ragged and filthy. Cage sat. A puff of dust rose around him, and he coughed.
“C’mon, Benny.” His eyes were wild, the sclera red with dust and panic and lack of sleep. His voice was high, nervous. “What’s going on, man? You don’t need a gun.”
I lifted an eyebrow.
“Seriously, bro. I came to you for help, I’m not about to hurt you. These fuckers are chasing me, like I told you—”
“Mm.” I didn’t tell him that I’d hired the fuckers in question. Or why. That wasn’t important. Only that he’d finally caved in. Finally come to me. Finally sat where I wanted him. The past, echoing forward. “Take a breath.”
