“Ape.”

“P?”

“It’s an ‘e,’ Sammy. Ape. A-p-e.”

“E. Elephant, and we’ve done tiger.”

Kirby thought for a moment. “Tapir.”

He heard Sammy shuffle his feet.

“You made that up.”

“I did not.” The shopkeeper did his best to sound indignant, but he couldn’t help smiling.

“What does it look like?”

Kirby’s smile widened. “I wouldn’t know. But I do know it’s got some kind of a weird nose. Go on—look it up!”

“I don’t have a phone.”

His smile faltered. He knew that Sammy was child-like in many ways, but every once in a while, it still caught him by surprise.

“Have you ever had a phone?” he asked.

“The boss gave me one once, but I kept losing it.”

Boss? Kirby thought. He said, “Do you mean Mister?”

Mister was the other man. The one that got angry and only ever seemed to talk to Sammy with sarcasm or impatience. The man of a thousand plans. He was in the other room, working on something. Nolan could hear the muted sounds of construction, even through the walls.

Kirby didn’t know Mister’s real name. He wasn’t sure Sammy knew it, and he made it a point to never ask.

Kirby felt like he was crossing an endless knife blade by walking on his hands. If he moved just so, he might make it to whatever the unseen goal was on the other side, but any carelessness, and he would slice his palms. He’d already done it once. He needed to be more careful now.

What Kirby knew, and what he didn’t know, mattered.

“Not Mister,” Sammy said. “It was before I met him. This was my boss.”

Should Kirby change the subject? How dangerous would it be to ask about Sammy’s past?

But everything was dangerous.

Kirby tried to keep his voice casual. “Did you have a job?”

“I worked with my brother,” Sammy said.

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry, Sammy.”

The large man didn’t answer.

Kirby said, “May I ask how he died?”

“He was shot. Another gang took him out. I wasn’t on that job.”

Kirby’s eyebrows rose. “You were a part of a gang?”

He didn’t know why that would surprise him. Sammy was a thief, and he’d proved that he could dominate in a fight, but when Kirby considered what little he knew about gangs, Sammy’s gentle nature seemed like it would be a hindrance.

“My brother brought me in.” A note of pride crept into Sammy’s voice. “We were collectors. We went out together.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Kirby leaned back in his chair. That wasn’t a normal gang. That sounded more like the mob.

“And I’ll bet your brother told you what to do,” he said.

It wasn’t even a question in his mind. Sammy’s whole life seemed to be nothing but listening to other people telling him what to do.

“He said he’d always take care of me,” Sammy said.

The sorrow in the man’s voice was like a vine; it crept into you, wound its way around your ribs, and gently squeezed.

Kirby tried to dismiss his heartache, but it wouldn’t go. Was this Stockholm syndrome? Could it be Stockholm syndrome if you liked one of your captors but not the other?

Oh, god. I have a favorite kidnapper.

Kirby covered his mouth so Sammy wouldn’t see him choking back his dismal laugh. When the fit of mirth passed, Kirby moved his hand and cleared his throat.

“What did you do after your brother died?” he asked.

“The boss took me in. He said that I was part of the family, and he’d take care of me because my brother couldn’t. But the other guys didn’t want to work with me. I’m stupid, you know? It makes it hard.”

Kirby could imagine. The gang must have struggled to figure out what to do with him.

Sammy went on, “The boss let me be a bodyguard sometimes. For him.”

“That sounds like an important position.”

“All I had to do was stand there and be quiet. He let me out too. By myself. He’d send me out to collect on easy loans.”

“Easy loans?”

“The guys that paid easy. That’s how I met Mister.”

Nolan Kirby felt as if someone had flipped on an electric switch buried deep in his body. His head buzzed. His ears strained. His nerves felt like humming wires.

“Mister borrowed money from your boss?”

“Yeah. He was nice to me.”

In an instant, the electric energy went dead. The only thing Kirby felt was cold.

“You mean Mister?” he said.

He heard the disbelief in his voice, but only as he spoke. He hoped that Sammy wouldn’t pick up on it.

“He teases me,” Sammy explained.

I know, Kirby thought. I’ve heard him tease you.

It was the kind of teasing that bit at a person, leaving small holes and scars. Did Sammy not know enough to mind? Or was he used to it?

“We laughed a lot,” Sammy added, “and when I went there, he said that he was always glad to see me.”

Sarcasm. Sammy had trouble with that.

“He’d talk to me,” Sammy said. “It was fun.”

Sometimes Kirby thought he could feel certain silences on his skin the same way he could feel the weight of motionless air.

“You really like him?” Kirby asked.

“Yeah.” A rare note of happiness flowed through the vine left by his voice. “He’s smart, you know. He takes care of me.”

“Do you like working with him?”

“He’s always careful. He makes sure I know what to do, and there’s no dangerous stuff. He never asks me to hurt anyone.”

Sammy suddenly stopped talking. The strained interruption was followed by a mumbled apology.

“It’s okay,” Kirby assured him. “I know. It’s not usually like this. How long have you two worked together?”

There was a quiet noise—so dim it was hard to hear over the noises of Mister’s construction. Sammy must have moved, but Kirby couldn’t guess how or what gesture the man had used.

“A few years?” Sammy didn’t sound too sure of himself. He went back to the part of the story he knew he could tell: “Mister went to talk to the boss himself. He said he wanted to give me a job. The boss told me it was up to me, and when I said I wanted to work with Mister, the boss told me that I could come back if I ever needed to.”

There was that quiet pride again. Sammy had two homes. That must have been important to him. Sammy, who worried about whether or not people would take care of him; Sammy, who always had people tell him what to do—he had one home with his gang, and another with Mister.

And he’d chosen to go with Mister, leaving behind the life and security he was familiar with.

Sammy must have liked Mister a lot.

“Does Mister like you, Sammy?”

Sammy answered faster than normal. His voice had an edge to it. “Yeah. He’s my friend. He takes care of me. He doesn’t have to.”

He finds you useful, Kirby thought.

But there were other useful people—ones that would be easier to work with and less frustrating. And Kirby had heard the odd moments of quiet laughter between the two men, and every once in a while, Mister would call Sammy’s name, and it would be in the gentle tone that Kirby instinctively employed when talking to the larger man.

“Does he—” Kirby stopped and let out a short, frustrated sigh. Whatever relationship Sammy had with Mister, it was more complicated than Kirby had assumed. Did Sammy even understand the concept of trust? Would he know how to express it?

Kirby tried again, “Sammy, do you think that Mister will…always…take care of you?”

“Yeah,” Sammy said.

But Kirby had heard the hesitation and the quiver running through the word. Sammy thought Mister would take care of him—but he wasn’t sure.

Guilt pushed a sour taste into Kirby’s mouth. He hated that displaced sense of confusion and fear that came from not knowing where he was. The idea that he could take some certainty away from a man like Sammy was heartbreaking.

“Why all these questions about Mister?” Sammy suddenly demanded.

Kirby could sense the blade wobbling under his sore hands. Maybe he should try telling the truth. Maybe empathy worked both ways.

“I’m scared,” Kirby said. “I know you a little bit. I don’t know Mister.”

“Mister’s all right. He says he’ll let you go when this is over.”

“Do you believe him?”

There was a pause.

“Yeah.”

But Kirby had heard the quiver in his voice.