As Colt drove us back to my father’s house, I rolled down the window, relishing the feel of the autumn air across my face. Easing my fingers out the window, I felt the air whizz between them. This was something I’d done when I’d been a little girl, safe in my daddy’s truck with the radio up too loud and the gravel kicking behind us.

I knew we didn’t have long. Colt’s horrendous story chilled my blood, making me unsure if I had the heart to leave him. He’d been alone for much of his life, the only “family” being his position in a gang. Imagining him running to Mexico by himself, with no one to kiss him, to hold him, nearly shook me to my core.

What was I staying in this crummy town for, anyway?

“You remember the way back, don’t you?” I asked him after about twenty minutes of driving.

He grunted in return, safe within the boundaries of his own making. We’d conversed enough about our problems. It was time to stamp them out. Reaching forward, I blared the radio still louder and began to hum along, pushing the racing thoughts—of fear, of panic—from my mind.

If my father was there, we would warn him, perhaps drive him to a safe location and tell him to remain there, to lie low. I’d tell him that I’d take care of getting the money a different way. If I had to rob a fucking bank, I would do it at this point. Anything to get Wes Kraemer off my father’s back.

I tried to imagine Colt back in Detroit, growing up on the street, getting by on that wry smile, the one that made me weak in the knees.

I glanced at him, suddenly realizing he was similar to my father in some ways: eager, wide-eyed, bouncing from one mistake to the next, just trying to cover his tracks.

In a moment of pure, unadulterated compassion, I reached across the middle of the car and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tight. He had to know he wasn’t alone in this. I was dirty with his money, with the scent of his body, with his stories. I would carry them too, now.

* * *

Colt pulled into the driveway of the little yellow house and cut the engine. I glanced around, checking to see if anything was out of the ordinary. The same busted potted plant leaned against the bricks near the garage. The same crooked porch swing was about to fall to the floor. Bits of paint still littered the grass. I sighed evenly, feeling a stab of hope. This was home, whole and complete in all its dilapidation. Wes Kraemer couldn’t have tainted it yet.

“Let’s go,” I said, racing from the passenger seat and bringing my keys into the air with a jangle. Colt ran behind me as I unlocked the door, already calling out for my father. “Dad? Daddy?”

The foyer was quiet, and the television was off—which was uncharacteristic. Glancing around, I rushed through the house, checking his bed—unmade but recently slept in—the kitchen, and even the basement, where a pile of laundry sat. Quivering, I went back upstairs, gazing into Colt’s eyes.

“He’s not here. Where—where is he?”

Colt rubbed at the back of his neck, showing off his thick bicep.

“You don’t think Wes already took him?” I asked, my panic rising. “It doesn’t look like there was a forced entry. Maybe—”

“Don’t panic yet. Don’t make things up in your head,” Colt said. “Call him, Luna. He could be at the store. He could be at the casino. You don’t know.”

Realizing he was right, I reached for the home phone and dialed my dad’s cell phone, waiting as it rang and rang. I cradled the old phone against my cheek, then switched sides after the third ring, sensing doom.

But just when I was about to smash the phone back into its cradle, I heard a voice on the other end. It was gravelly and deep. It was my father’s.

“Luna? Is that you, honey?”

Tears sprang to my eyes. Dabbing at them, I gave Colt a firm nod and a half smile, telling him wordlessly that my father was all right. He was safe.

“Dad, I’m at home. Where are you?”

“Luna, I’m so sorry. Baby, I’m so sorry,” my dad said.

“Why are you sorry?” I whispered. “Are you safe? Did you get into an accident? Dad?”

“No, no. Nothing like that,” he murmured, sighing heavily. “I just realized a few things this morning, is all. After I dropped off the money at Kraemer’s, I knew this couldn’t go on forever. I mean, Jesus, now I’ve gotten you involved in something, something dangerous. I could smell it on you last night.”

“Dad, I’m fine. Where are you?” I demanded, hating the haze of his answers.

“I checked myself into a clinic in Des Moines,” he finally said, stuttering into it. “An addiction rehab clinic, of all places. I can’t rack up that debt again. I can’t get involved with people like Wes Kraemer again. And you, Luna, I can’t put you in danger like that again.”

The relief hit me like a tsunami. My head knocked back, giving me a bright view of the garden outside—one we hadn’t kept up since before I’d been 13 or 14. It was overgrown, wild, lined with bushes that poked and sliced you if you got too close. Tears trailed down my cheeks as I took in the truth: my father was safe. He was actually locked away somewhere, out of danger. He’d gotten out of town before Wes Kraemer had had the chance to get his grubby hands on him.

“Jesus, Dad,” I whispered, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “You’re in Des Moines.”

“I didn’t want to tell you right away. Too ashamed, baby,” he said. “I’ll be here for a few weeks, and then, hopefully, I’ll get everything out of my system. It can go back to how things were before, and I can focus on my health.”

“We’ll get you healthy, Daddy,” I whispered. “You deserve it. You’ve got the biggest heart of all.”

He chuckled into the phone then, trying to cover the fact that he, too, was crying. I imagined his tears dripping onto the deep wrinkles lining his eyes. “I have to go back now, baby. They’re going to be taking my phone for a few weeks. They’ll let me check in with you every couple days. Okay?”

“Okay, Dad. Focus on yourself. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said.

Seconds after I clicked the phone back into its cradle, I burst forward, wrapping my arms around Colt’s neck and kissing him with a zeal and a passion that seemed to leap out of my gut. Quaking, I held him close, falling into his embrace, still unable to translate just how happy I was into words. In the silence, Colt brought his hand along the small of my back, cradling my ass. My cheeks felt warm; my heart pumped in my chest.

After a short eternity, I pulled my head back, allowing myself to gaze into his eyes. I couldn’t deny now that my feelings for him were entrenched. I was growing accustomed to his smell, to the twinkle in his blue eyes. I toyed with his blond hair, swirling it around his ears, and giggled slightly, like a teenage girl.

“He’s all right,” I whispered, incredulous. “He’s far away, and safe.”

Colt’s eyes closed. “That’s amazing,” he said.

“Do we have time?” I asked him, tilting my shoulders toward him. My eyebrows rose high, showing my temptation. My lust.

“We need to leave, baby,” Colt returned, not unkindly. With a firm squeeze of my ass, he tipped his nose into mine. “But the minute we cross that state border, I’m going to make you forget your name.”

“I almost don’t remember it now,” I said, my heart jumping into my throat.

We turned to leave, our hands clinging tightly to each other’s. As I shuddered with pleasure, I watched as the door in front of us burst inward, revealing a stumpy, bald man wearing a baseball cap, another lankier man with a gray goatee, and Wes Kraemer himself, who smoked a half cigarette between chapped lips and looked at us with eager, hungry eyes.

“Well, well, look what we have here,” he said, his voice a drawl. “Don’t think I’ve been this happy since the Fourth of July.”