Well, this was unexpected.

Not in a but-I’m-guilty kind of way. In a the-deck-was-stacked-against-me-but-I-still-turned-a-full-house way. I knew I didn’t kill those people but this world is becoming more and more guilty-until-proven-innocent every single day.

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 starts to move 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.”

My groin clenches involuntarily. “I understand.”

“You work for Daniel Quinn,” she repeats. “I believe a Quinn killed my brother. I want you to find out which Quinn it was.”

“I don’t know,” I say, desperately. “I make tacos, lady. Daniel passes his shit through my freezer and I look the other way. I don’t get involved. If I knew anything, I’d tell you.”

She nods at the man next to me and I feel the edge of his pistol press into my neck.

“Okay — okay.” I present my begging hands. “Daniel might have mentioned your brother. But he said he didn’t kill him. He doesn’t want a mob war.”

“My brother didn’t either,” she says. “He wanted peace and cooperation between our families and he was killed for it.”

“That’s probably true, but—”

“Mr. Murray, did you ever sneak a bite of dessert before dinner even after mother said no?” she asks over me.

I squint. “I don’t know. Yeah, maybe.”

“Have you ever committed a crime you knew in advance to be illegal?”

“Sure,” I answer. “Who hasn’t?”

“So, then, do you agree that an insubordinate Quinn might have killed my brother against Daniel’s wishes?”

“Yeah, but—”

“You will find out which Quinn killed my brother,” she says again, her voice harder, “or…”

I wait. “Or…?”

“Or I will hang you up by your—”

“My fucking balls,” I say, nodding. “I got it.”

She gestures to the driver and he comes to a quick stop by the curb. “You have two days, Mr. Murray.”

I wince. “I kinda got a lot on my plate right now. I can probably fit it in next—”

The man beside me pulls back the hammer on his pistol.

“Two days,” I say with a big nod. “Sounds reasonable. No problem. I’ll get right on it.”

Morgan smiles, though I really wish she wouldn’t. I almost feel like she’s about to detach her jaw and swallow me whole. “Have a good night, Mr. Murray.”

“Oh, you, too,” I mutter as the brute shoves me back outside.

I plunk down into a deep puddle. The water splashes up my ankles and I curse to myself as Morgan rolls her window down again.

“And Mr. Murray…”

I groan. “What?”

“If you tell anyone about this, I will—”

“Something about my balls?” I ask as I scrape my foot against the curb.

She smiles again and the window slides back up as her cliché ride rolls off down the street.

I step up onto the sidewalk and reach for my phone in my pocket to distract me from the hell I just encountered. It still has a little bit of juice left but it’ll die any minute now. I tap over to my messages.

Found lipstick on your collar. We need to talk.

Translation: You’re in some deep shit now, son.

* * *

I take a cab to the South End Truck Lot. The moment I step out, the air shifts and an icy cold breeze strikes my face. Fresh clouds fill the sky above me. Another storm tonight. Another storm tomorrow, too.

I feel the eyes on me before I even step into the office hub. The place isn’t populated with other drivers like usual. They’ve all gone home. Probably sensed the same darkness I feel as I walk inside.

Lots more suits stand around. Their voices go quiet the moment they see me. I expect one of them to be Doogan like always but then I remember what happened to him. They probably already know and — given the cryptic texts — Daniel already knows I was arrested for his murder.

I beeline through the sitting area and into the hallway toward Daniel’s office.

“Milo,” he says as soon as we make eye contact. “Sit down.”

Two men stand in the doorway. They part ways to let me in and I lower down into the chair in front of Daniel’s desk.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“What’s up?” he repeats, glancing at the men behind me. “He asks me what’s up. You got arrested today, kid. That’s what’s up.”

“It was just a big misunderstanding,” I say.

“Lucky break, eh?”

“Not really. I didn’t do what they accused me of.”

Daniel looks up and waves his thick arm, making the other man quickly disperse. They close the door behind them, once again leaving me alone with the big boss. I’m really not a fan of this new trend. I just make tacos, dammit.

“Doogan…” Daniel says, blowing out a line of bright gray smoke. “He was with us for a long time.”

I shrug. “Seemed like a decent guy.”

“He was a fucking prick.” He stamps his cigarette out. “I want to know everything you know.”

“About what?”

“My sources tell me that our man Doogan was a lying, scheming cop,” he says, lowering his voice. “I’ve been able to keep a lid on that for now but you’re not leaving that chair until you tell me everything you know.”

I turn up my hands. “They told me I killed a cop.”

“So, you did kill him?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t. They thought I did.”

“Why?”

“Because they found evidence at the crime scene that tied me to it. I had an alibi. I was in my truck and park security footage proved it.”

He scratches his chin. “What kind of evidence?”

“Fingerprints. My hot sauce. They even found the fucking murder weapon hidden in my truck.”

Daniel slams his hand down. “Those motherfuckers.”

I sigh, glancing at the clock. “What motherfuckers?”

“The McGregors,” he growls, his face recoiling.

“You think they set me up?”

“Who else?”

He rises fast out of his chair and starts pacing behind his desk while slurs come tumbling out of his mouth.

I feel like I should say something to dispute his theory. The McGregors think the Quinns killed Canon. The Quinns think the McGregors killed Doogan in retaliation. Neither wants to admit it. If someone was begging for a mob war, then surely someone would step up and take responsibility but they’re both very quiet. No one wants to take credit for killing a cop, I guess.

There’s a third party behind the scenes somewhere, someone in-the-know enough to be able to nail the whole thing on me — Daniel Quinn’s most trusted truck driver, apparently.

I don’t say a word of this out loud. The more I talk, the longer I’ll have to be here.

Seriously. Fuck this mob bullshit.

Finally, Daniel stalls out by his chair. “Where’s the truck?” he asks.

“It was impounded,” I say. “I’ll go pick it up in the morning.”

“Why not now?”

“Because I’m covered in jail stank right now and I’d kinda like to go home and soak in a bubble bath.”

He nods with understanding. “All right. Take the night off. Get the truck back onto the street tomorrow afternoon. Gotta keep things looking as normal as possible or else we’ll be in TBD Town for good.”

I bite my tongue, thinking about Morgan’s threat. I can either find out who killed Canon or I can run a food truck — but I’m not sure I can do both.

“Will do,” I say. “Hey, sir…”

Daniel sits down again. “What?”

“Just to reiterate. Y’all didn’t kill Canon?”

He speaks quickly. “No. Why? Cops say something to you?”

“No. No, sir. They’re as curious as you are.”

He lets out a grunt and waves me away. I stand up and make wide, fast strides toward the door.

“Hey, Milo.”

I pause in the open doorway. “Yes?”

“If you’re going for a soak, I deeply recommend Chi brand bath powder. Makes your balls smell like roses. You can get it at Harry’s down the street.”

I blink slowly. What the hell is with people and my balls today?

“Thank you very much, sir,” I say. “I’ll look into it.”

He gives me a thumbs up.