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Up close.

Too close.

The surveillance pictures did nothing for him.

Neither did watching from across grocery-store aisles.

Fuck, he’s beautiful.

The thought arrives quietly, then makes my entire mind skid to a halt.

No.

Absolutely not.

I stare toward the opposite end of the alley instead.

He’s nineteen, I know that. I have his birthdate memorized by now.

He is legally an adult, but he’s both John’s son and twenty-one years younger than me.

And currently unconscious in my arms because I abducted him.

Get it together, Delmonte, I think.

I carry Kamden toward the car, then remember what he dropped. The rabbit lies on the wet pavement behind us, one floppy ear half-submerged in a shallow puddle. John’s box landed several feet away.

My stomach sinks.

I can’t pick everything up while holding Kamden properly.

He comes first.

I get him to the car, open the rear door, and lower him onto the seat with considerably more care than I have ever shown anyone I’ve forcibly put into a vehicle. His head rolls limply toward the window, but I catch it before his temple knocks the glass. I shrug out of my coat one-handed and fold it beneath his head like a pillow.

Better.

I fasten the seatbelt across his chest, and the sight hits me like a punch. He’s unconscious, restrained, and utterly at my mercy. Unable to choose anything—not direction, not speed, not whether the door ever opens for him again.

I stare for a beat too long, then shut the door and go back for his belongings.

I lift the stuffed animal carefully by its soft middle instead of the soaked ear. The fur there is matted and cold.

I wipe the damp ear against the clean inside of my shirt, leaving a streak of grime on the cotton.

“Sorry, buddy.” I stop and look at the toy. “And now I’m talking to a rabbit.”

The rabbit offers no judgment.

I carry it back to the car and place it on the seat beside Kamden. His hand lies palm-down, fingers slightly curled. For reasons I don’t examine too closely, I settle the rabbit beneath it, so the fur brushes his skin. His fingers don’t move. Still, it looks right.

Then John’s box. The corner cracked when it hit the ground. That bothers me, but I’ll fix it. I crouch and run my thumb along the split plastic before lifting the lid. Inside, everything appears intact.

A photograph of John rests near the top, him smiling at whoever took it with that same confidence he carried everywhere.

I stare at him. “You could have asked literally anyone else.” John continues smiling. “Garcia had a nicer house.” Nothing. “Vasquez had a wife.” Still nothing. “Both of them still have all their limbs intact, you fucking asshole.”

I shut the lid.