“Use a six-point wrench next time. Better grip,” the guy says, standing up smoothly. All of his movements seem fluid. “Do you want help bringing it outside?”

“No. I’ll do it myself.” He’s being too nice to me, and I don’t have the energy to be nice back.

A flash of surprise skitters across his face—a momentary lapse of his carefully guarded expression perhaps. “How?” His eyes drift over my limbs, toned but slender.

I know I’m small. I’ve always been small. When I was young, I was tiny. Thank God for that growth spurt at fourteen or I might have snapped one day and turned homicidal, after a lifetime of people telling me what I can’t do because of my size. My teachers, my friends, their parents. Even my own parents worried about me more than they did my brothers. They still do. It’s a double-edged sword with them, though. Not only am I small, I’m also a girl. Aka fragile.

Weak.

I’ve spent my entire life proving to them—and everyone—that I’m not a weak little girl. That’s probably why I’ve become so independent. If I don’t ask for help, then in my head I’m proving them all wrong. I can’t have people seeing me in that light, especially in this profession.

Granted, as I stand next to this tattoo chair that probably weighs as much as I do and I probably am physically too weak to drag down the hall, I know that I should accept his help. Too bad I’m also stubborn.

“It’s not your problem.” I level his unreadable gaze with one of my own, that I know without seeing a reflection isn’t pleasant. My friend Amber tells me often enough to wipe it off.

It doesn’t seem to faze him. He folds his thick arms over his chest. Waiting for me to ask for help, which I’m not going to do, because then I’d owe him and I hate owing people.

The guy isn’t wavering, and this showdown is becoming more and more uncomfortable as each second passes. Finally I break free of his gaze. “If you don’t mind, now. I’m going to be here all night as it is.”

He tears a sheet of paper towel from the roll and wipes the wrench before setting it back in the box. He wipes his hands next. Again, so graceful. Turning on his heels, he begins walking toward the door, offering a low “You’re welcome.”

“Wait . . .” I heave a sigh, rolling my eyes.

He stops, turns. Settles that stone-cold gaze like he’s expecting something.

Fuck, I already do owe him. I really hate owing people! And somehow I’ve gone from no customers to two in a matter of thirty minutes. Though, as I study his face—a nose that should be too long and narrow but on his angular face not so; a too-perfect dark trim beard, as if he shaped it with a straight razor or something—I decide there could be worse things than owing a man who looks like him. “Come by on Thursday and we’ll talk. Maybe I can do your ink then.”

“I’ll think about it.” He turns and strolls out the front door, leaving me staring at his back in wonder. What was that supposed to be? A hissy fit?

“Whatever,” I grumble, locking the dead bolt on the door to avoid any more surprise customers. Holding my breath, I pull the shades down. I dismiss the guy from my thoughts and shift back to my task. This fucking chair that, thanks to the mystery man, can now go into the Dumpster.

I put all of my weight into it as I push.

It doesn’t even budge.

SIX

SEBASTIAN

With my keys in the ignition, I pause once to get another look at the old storefront signage, at the playful eyes staring down at me, and smile. They belong on a puppy or kitten, not on a feral fanged jackrabbit. Kind of like the exotic girl with the razor-sharp attitude inside. Though her eyes aren’t necessarily playful. Soft, yes. Veiled behind a tough act, but I saw the vulnerability there. The need to appear strong when she doesn’t really feel it inside.

She is strong, I’ll give her that. Her uncle was murdered a week ago and she’s not sitting in there, crying about it. She’s set her grief aside to do what needs to be done, and that’s a quality not everyone possesses. She’s doing it on her own, too, I presume, because I don’t see anyone around to help her.

But she’s definitely not unaffected by what’s happened. I could see it in the dark bags under her eyes, as if she hasn’t slept in days. I saw it in the way she reacted to me entering the shop, her tiny fist curled around the wrench, ready to defend herself if she needed to.

I knew about her two-hundred-dollar-an-hour rate before stepping inside, thanks to a quick website search. That, along with an impressive portfolio of work, confirmed to me that I have nothing to worry about if I were forced to have her hold a needle to my flesh. But for now that’s not necessary because I got what I needed.

Information.

She’s going to be busy here for a good few hours, which means her house is waiting for me.

I feel the pull, though, to go back and just drag that chair out for her, despite her attitude. She’s too arrogant or suspicious or plain fucking mule-headed to accept help when she clearly needed it, stretching her tiny body—that I could snap in two in a heartbeat—to her full five-foot-two stature in defiance, even as I towered over her. She clearly wants it out for emotional reasons, to try to unsee whatever she witnessed that led to her uncle’s murder. I want to tell her that it’s pointless. She’ll never be able to shed those memories.

But I’m not here to be her shrink or her confidant.

And if she knows anything about this videotape, then I’m about to become her worst nightmare.

Ingleside hasn’t changed much in the years since I’ve driven through here. The houses are all still small, square, and crammed together, and lining some of the steepest hills in San Francisco with a rainbow of colors—everything from muted gray to Pepto-Bismol pink. Bars cover the first-floor windows of the seedy corner stores and the houses, telling me that the area’s issues with burglary haven’t abated.

I leave my car a full block down from Ned Marshall’s address and walk the rest of the way, keeping my baseball cap pulled down over my face. Of the few people I pass, the majority are Asian. That’s a plus. Most prosecutors consider them unreliable witnesses when it comes to identifying Caucasian suspects. Not that I expect to get caught.

I spot the number up ahead and turn to climb the steep steps like I belong here, at this house on the corner with decorative white grates to protect it from invaders. I prefer window entry, but it would require scaling the walls to the second story here, leaving me exposed. So I’m left with going through the front door.

The gate lock takes me ten seconds to pick, allowing me into the small, secluded entranceway, littered with old running shoes and a can of sand filled with cigarette butts. A flawed and idiotic set up in home design. You’re just giving people like me cover while they spend the extra time to pick your dead bolt and get into your house. Of course, a dead bolt isn’t child’s play. It would cause issues for a local thug looking to lift a TV or cash, but it’s not going to stop a guy like me, who was picking locks for fun long before I had any real reason to.

I’m inside in another thirty seconds, securing the door quietly behind me. I stop to listen for creaks and voices, the cold metal of my Beretta pressed against my leg, ready to be pulled out of my boot if necessary. I’m ninety-five percent certain that no one else is here. The guy who jumped into an airport taxi this morning with a suitcase was clearly leaving, and there were no signs of anyone else here after the girl left for the shop.