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And Anna.

How could this possibly be a coincidence?

I walk down the outer stairs of the station a free man, but I don’t feel like one. I can hardly take a deep breath without fueling the fire in my lungs. It feels like a doctor just sucker-punched me in the gut after telling me I didn’t have cancer.

I have a daughter.

The thought stops me cold at the street corner a little too suddenly. A woman behind me walks into me and shoves my shoulder.

“Fucking pervert,” she spits as she passes by into the street.

I laugh. What the hell else am I supposed to do?

I step forward, but a long, black car halts in front of me, blocking my path. I grunt in annoyance and wave my arm to the side.

“After you,” I say.

The back window rolls down and I groan at whatever more abuse this day is going to throw at me.

“Mr. Murray.”

I look up. A woman in black sunglasses stares at me from the backseat. Curly, blonde hair and dark brown eyebrows poke out above the frames. She’s either very naked or she’s wearing a very, very low-cut top that’s hidden from view.

“Yes?” I say.

“Get in.”

“What?”

“I said, get in the fucking car.”

I sigh. Her accent is thick, fierce, and very Boston-Irish. The last thing I want right now is more mob bullshit in my life.

The door opens and a large man steps out to intimidate me inside.

I throw up my hands. “All right. All right…”

He shoves me in and I sit down next to a man with a pistol balanced on his right knee. His legs jut out in all their man-spreading glory, but it doesn’t look like he’s willing to give me any space, so I squeeze up. The men sandwich me in place on the seat and the car moves again.

I look across at the woman. I keep my eyes locked on her face, but I can make out the overall details of her. Her dress is black, hugged tightly against her curves like a second skin. Red, knee-high boots. White, pale body.

“Do you know who I am, Mr. Murray?”

I shrug. “Nope.”

She pinches the edge of her sunglasses and slides them off. Her eyes are a deep reptilian green. “I’m Morgan McGregor,” she says. “You were arrested for killing my brother, Canon. Care to explain why?”

“I didn’t kill anybody,” I repeat for the up-teenth time today.

She sits patiently with her hands gently folded in her lap.

I sigh. “Someone planted evidence at the crime scene and in my taco truck — but I alibied out. I didn’t do it. They know it. I know it. They let me go.”

She presses her lips together thoughtfully. “You work for Daniel Quinn’s obnoxious food truck circuit, then?”

“I park my truck in his lot, but I don’t know what you mean by⁠—”

“Cut the bullshit, Mr. Murray. I’m no cop. I don’t give two shits how dirty your hands are. I just want to hang up whoever killed my brother by his fucking balls.”