A siren wailed. Flashing lights lit up my rearview mirror, coming from a tinted SUV right on my tail. I glanced at the speedometer—barely five over the limit.

I pulled over, cursing, my body tense. Part of my job was staying off the radar. I didn’t visit Simon at the LVMPD, and I always made myself scarce at crime scenes.

A badge appeared at my window. I rolled it down.

The cop peered inside. “License and registration, please.”

“Is something wrong?” I asked, handing over what he wanted. He didn’t answer, just took my info back to the car parked behind me.

I clenched the steering wheel, then told myself to take a breath. He’d have nothing on me. My record was clean, as far as his database was concerned. The boy I used to be didn’t exist anymore, Simon had made sure of that.

I glanced at the unmarked SUV behind me. Not a regular officer. A detective maybe, or a CAT. But there was no reason for the Criminal Apprehension Team to come after me.

He came back, leaning against the window frame, my license and registration dangling from his hand. “This truck is registered to a Simon Ting. You know him?”

“The registration is under my name.” I took the paper and opened it up, pointing to my name so obviously there.

“Records say otherwise.” He squinted at me. “You steal this car?”

I almost laughed. If I was the kind of guy to steal a car, it wouldn’t be a Ford. “Of course not. I’ve had the truck for four years. Something must be wrong with your computer.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “So, this Ting. You know him or not?”

This guy was wearing a uniform, he had a badge, but no name tag. The SUV behind me was unmarked. Adrenaline flooded my body, my knuckles itched. A quick jab to the chin and he’d be flat on his back. He’d never see it coming.

“Nope. Never heard of him.”

He stared at me for a long moment. My right hand was curling into a fist on my thigh and I loosened it.

He scratched his chin. “I’ll double-check the records. Maybe it was a glitch. Sorry for the inconvenience.” He sauntered back to his car.

My muscles wouldn’t uncoil, even after he drove off. Suspicious. The whole thing didn’t make sense. Simon’s name shouldn’t have been anywhere near my truck registration. He’d given me the cash to buy it, but there wouldn’t be a record of that anywhere. There should be no paper trail that linked Simon and me at all. Whether this guy was a cop, a CAT, or something else entirely, it wasn’t a coincidence that he’d stopped and asked me specifically about Simon.

I headed to the gym. Time alone with the bags would help clear my mind, but I had a class to teach first.

Eastside Boxing was in an old part of Vegas, near the Arts District. The building was a massive square on a street corner, dwarfing everything around it. A faded painting of a shirtless boxer covered one side of the brick, something Conall McCrary, the owner, had painted himself when he bought the building forty-two years ago.

“Barely on time, Thornton,” McCrary said when I pushed through the front door, gym bag over one shoulder. I glanced at the clock. Five minutes before three. The first class of the day came straight from school, arriving between three thirty and four. But to Conall McCrary, on time meant an hour early.

“I got pulled over.”

“What for?”

“No clue.”

McCrary raised an eyebrow. “Bergin cancelled again so you’ll be on your own for the afternoon.” He shuffled through some papers on the front desk and then rammed them in a drawer. I’d tried to convince him to go paperless, but the old man wouldn’t even consider a computer. He was so disorganized, papers shoved here and there, I didn’t know how he could keep track of class payments or tournament dates, or even the names of the kids. But he never missed my salary so I didn’t push it.

“I swear I should can that kid,” he muttered.

Bergin was older than me but smaller, prompting McCrary to call him ‘kid’ all the time. It drove Bergin crazy, but he deserved it. The slacker rarely showed up for work.

“And the toilets need cleaning. Let that janitor know, would you?”

I patted the top of the desk on my way by. “Got it.”

“Thornton.”

I stopped.

McCrary leaned forward, his nose wrinkling. “You smell like a baby’s bum again.”

I took a sniff at my knuckles without thinking, then shrugged. “You know Simon.”

His face clouded over. “Yes, I do know Simon.”

I’d met McCrary five years ago when his brother borrowed from Simon and I had to pressure his family to collect. McCrary had seen my fighting potential then and agreed to train me. I paid him by cleaning the gym, then later, by assisting in his classes. Now, I was the head instructor at Eastside Boxing while he took care of the business side. And I’d become his only family after his moved back to Ireland.

I headed upstairs and banged on the door to Nico’s apartment. “Open up, Higgins. I know you’re in there.” I pounded my fist a few more times for good measure.

Nico opened the door. His eyes were bloodshot but he gave me a sardonic grin. “Jay Thornton, how nice of you to drop by. What can I do for you?”

The thing I liked about Nico Higgins—he wasn’t scared of me, and he didn’t whine or beg. Unfortunately, it was only a matter of time.

Nico glanced at his watch. “You’re not due for a check-in for another…week?”

“Five days.” I leaned against the doorjamb. “That’s not why I’m here. The toilets?”

Nico made a face. “I’d rather it was about the money. Kids do not know how to aim, I swear.”

“Why, you got it?” I couldn’t hold back my surprise. Nico was a janitor and a drunk, not exactly the poster-boy for paying back a large sum of money.

“You’re not allowed to ask yet,” he said.

I crossed my arms. “In five days, I won’t be asking.”

Nico paled, but he didn’t argue.

“Kids will be here soon,” I said. “Get those bathrooms done.”

“What’s the point?” he grumbled. “It’ll be a sprinkler party before we close tonight.”

I went back downstairs and changed into my boxing shorts. When I came out, Nico was already at work scrubbing the sink in the girls’ bathroom. I still had about fifteen minutes before the kids showed up, so I strapped on my boxing gloves. It didn’t take me long to work up a sweat pounding the heavy bag.

“Offer’s still open.”

I grabbed onto the swinging bag, then turned to McCrary. His skinny arms were folded over his chest, his old man’s gut hanging out underneath.

“I know. I need more time.” I cringed. I sounded like a mark.

“Time ain’t exactly on my side.”

McCrary’s hair was snow white, a patch on top completely bald. His face was worn down, a testament to years of struggle and hard work. I knew McCrary was old, but I didn’t want to know it.

“I can’t take over until you let me in on the secrets of your filing system.” I ripped off a glove with my teeth. “Otherwise I’ll be sunk before I start.”

McCrary tapped the side of his head. “It’s all up here, son.”

He was seventy and had a way better memory than me. “You know that won’t work for me.”

He turned away. “Uh-uh. Don’t even try to convince me to buy a computer again. I’m old and set in my ways. Once you take over, you can do what you want, but until then I’ll stick with good ol’ pencil and paper.”

He shuffled back to the front desk, a slight limp in his right leg from a boxing match gone wrong. I was afraid McCrary was right, that he didn’t have much time left, but I wasn’t ready. I had a little money saved, but no experience running a business.

Most of all, I didn’t know how to tell Simon I wanted out. He wouldn’t just say “have a nice life,” and let me go. I owed him. Not money, but for who I was. With a guy like Simon, no matter what I did, I could never pay off that debt. The more I tried to pull away from him, the more he reined me in. With a guy like Simon, you didn’t walk away, not even if he called you “son.”

Especially not then.

McCrary would hold on a few more years, give me time to work it all out. He would’ve given me the gym right then if I let him, but I didn’t want handouts. Both Simon and McCrary had worked hard for what they had, and I would do the same. My way.

A school bus pulled up to the curb out front, a load of noisy boys spilling out. They shoved their way inside; a bunch of them gave me high fives as they headed to the back of the gym to hang up their backpacks and change into their shorts and Eastside Boxing t-shirts.

“Alright, let’s go.” I started jogging around the gym, quickly followed by a trail of nine and ten-year-olds. “Hurry up, Moises,” I said to a kid who was still fiddling with his backpack, “we’re starting without you.”

Containing a smile, I slapped the Eastside Boxing logo on the front wall as I jogged by. I’d never felt more at home.