I'm unsure of how to approach Nathan as I get back home. The sun went down hours ago, and Peter is probably gone. Growing up, he almost never spent evenings at home, usually going to see “friends,” as he would put it. So there's a chance that Nathan might be with him if he's actually conducting business.

On the other hand, if Peter's out with any of his current mistresses, he'd leave Nathan behind. Now that I've admitted to myself and to Katrina that he’s a philandering, lying son of a bitch, I'm able to recall little details about the way he does things, things that I'd overlooked or never really cared to think about before. Like dyeing his hair, or the fact that he changes secretaries on a roughly yearly basis. Or the fact that when he's going out to fuck around, he leaves Nathan behind.

I'm encouraged when I see that Peter's Porsche is gone. That thing only has two seats, and unless Nathan’s riding shotgun, he’ll be home. Of course, Peter never lets anyone else drive that German showpiece. I park my Audi and go inside. And here I thought my car was pretentious...

The first person I find is Andrea, sitting in the dining room with her textbooks in front of her. She's stripped out of her power suit and looks more like the twenty-year-old that she is. Shows me how fifteen hours can change someone, I guess. “Hey, Andrea.”

“Whatcha want, Jack?” Andrea asks, grumpy. Studying must be going bad for her. She's always been moody, but normally she's never outwardly hostile to me unless I'm being a jerk to her. “Don't tell me you finished Rich Dad.”

“No, I got to chapter four before everything sort of kicked off this morning. Since then, I've been... well, busy. How was your day?”

“Sucked. Got my midterms back.” Oh yeah, she said something a while back about preparing for her summer midterms.

“Andrea, you go three semesters a year, you've been doing that since junior high school. Don't you think, well, maybe you can let go of a test or two? Nobody can throw perfect games each time out. I've had bad lift days, shit like that. Besides, what'd you score?” It is one of the things that I've never grasped about Andrea until meeting Katrina again. Her drive is superhuman, and she's getting her MBA at twenty because of it. Still, it can't be healthy, having graduated high school at sixteen, getting her bachelor's at nineteen and now being more than halfway through her MBA. I've never worried about it before, mainly because I've been too much of a self-absorbed manchild to give a damn. Well, that's going to change. “Come on, Andrea. What'd you score?”

“Only 83 and 87,” she grumps, slamming her book closed. “Happy now?”

“Whoa, whoa, Andrea. I wasn't trying to piss you off,” I hurriedly apologize. I want to snap at her in return, but something, maybe something that rubbed off from Katrina's talk with me, holds me back. “Okay, so you didn't get As in them. And I know, the shitstorm I've raised this past week and a half or so hasn't helped much.”

Andrea takes a deep breath, then nods. “Thank you, oniichan. Sorry, too. Margaret was bitchy when Peter left tonight. We had an argument, which is why I'm out here instead of in my room. She's insisted that she hold court over the entire family wing of the house, and threw me out. It was either study here or in the kitchen, and the kitchen's too hot.”

I smile and pat her shoulder. “I understand, thanks for the heads-up. I'm sorry you had to deal with that.” She looks started at first, then nods gratefully. Mom's always treated her like shit, but I've never really bothered to empathize before, I guess because I was always too wrapped up in my own bullshit. That's going to change. “Quick favor. Have you seen Nathan?”

Andrea nods. “After Peter left and Margaret's blow-up, I heard him say something about getting a workout in. You'll probably find him out there, or maybe in his workshop.”

“Thanks. And I owe you a hot chocolate later or something, something to help you stay awake while you study.”

“Sounds good. And Jackson...”

“Yeah, Andrea?” I ask, already heading out the door. I pause, and look back.

She looks like she's going to say something, then shakes her head. “Just... when you get back, if you'd like to talk about what you read, I'll make some time.”

“Thanks. We'll see.”

I leave the dining room and run up to my room, changing clothes quickly. I didn't get a second workout in today yet, and I could use a sweat myself. It only takes me three minutes, and I jog outside. I can hear Mom drunkenly singing to herself in her room, so slurred I can't even make it out, but it sounds like blues. I leave the drunken singing and the main house behind, heading out to the gym. Andrea's right, I find Nathan inside, stripped down to just some compression shorts and pounding on a heavy bag. He puts a lot of thirty-year-old athletes to shame. He’s still pretty ripped, and I can only hope to be in that kind of shape at his age.

A timer goes off, and Nathan stops, stepping away and seeing me for the first time. “How goes your warnings?” he asks, surprised when I don't answer. “What?”

“Did you?” I ask, surprised at how calm I say it, despite my anger. “Did you set the bomb?”

The timer goes off, and Nathan turns back to the bag. His first punch is a jab, but still, the hundred and fifty-pound bag jumps like it's just been shot, only to be followed up almost immediately by a thunderous right hand that shakes the beam the bag is attached to. The foot-thick wooden beam groans and I see dust shake down around him as Nathan continues with his assault on the bag, driving fists, elbows, knees and his bare feet into the leather sides. When the timer goes off again, he looks surprised that I'm still standing there watching him.

“I'm going to repeat myself, Nathan. Did you set the bomb that blew up the Grammercys’ car? No matter how much you want to try and scare the shit outta me by beating up the bag, I'm going to get an answer.”

“You sure about that?” Nathan asks. The timer goes off again, but he ignores it, still looking at me. “You think you can beat an answer out of me?”

“I'll do what I have to, succeed or not. I thought you were a better man than that. Why'd you lie, Nathan, when I asked you about the bomb before?”

“I didn't lie,” Nathan says, stripping off his gloves. “What I said was that I didn't kill Katrina's parents.”

“Considering her father's alive and running a bar in Miami, no shit. Now, are you going to tell me what really happened?”

Nathan goes over to the locker that contains the boxing equipment and pulls out one set of sparring gloves. “Let's see if you really are ready for the answer. You survive two rounds, and I'll tell you a bedtime story.”

“What are the rules?” I ask, catching the gloves as he tosses them to me.

“Boxing. I don't want to actually hurt you, Jackson. But you'll have to earn the truth if you want it. Coming in here and demanding things from me doesn't show me that you're ready for the truth. So I will test your resolve.”

We walk over to the matted area, which is about the closest thing we have to a ring without throwing down outside on the grass. Nathan sets the timer, then pulls his gloves on. “On the bell.”

“No mouthpieces?” I ask. Nathan shrugs, and I get his point. I don't even have one here in the gym, and it doesn't matter anyway. If something gets knocked out, I'll go to the dentist.

The electronic bell goes off, and I come out. I've got size on him, at least twenty pounds, and I'm an inch taller, but I'm taking nothing for granted. He might not want to hurt me, he might be tired and sweaty, but he's not an idiot. In fact, he's perhaps the deadliest man I know.

I lose track of what's happening after his first combination comes whipping toward my head. All I know is that he's a whirlwind, fists coming through every gap in whatever defense I set up. I keep my hands high, protecting my head, hoping that all the crunches and other stomach training I do can keep me from getting put down with a liver shot.

Nathan does notice, and I'm eating punch after punch to my stomach and sides, and I run, dancing and shucking and jiving as best I can. I had decent moves in my last fight, easily avoiding the guy I fought then, some football player from Tulane who thought he was a little tougher than he actually was.

But Nathan's no college football player with more balls than brains. He's trained, he's a professional, and as the bell beeps to signal the end of the first round, I'm already staggering as I head back to the corner.

“You can't take an ass whipping like that again,” Nathan says, barely breathing hard while I kneel in my corner. “Give up.”

“Not until you tell me what you did to the Grammercys.” I get to my feet, my stomach on fire and my legs shaking. “Come on, I won't just be a punching bag this round.”

Nathan's eyes gleam with something that I think is either respect or perhaps pity, or maybe he just thinks I'm out of my fucking gourd. The bell rings and I step out, flicking a jab. It's not much, but I hope it's enough to keep him from just steamrolling me again.

No such luck. In a sweet little move, he switches his stance, his right hand becoming his lead and catching me over my punch, his fist crashing into my jaw. I feel something work loose, and the coppery tang of blood fills my mouth. I stagger back, trying to duck away, covering up. The world is spinning, and suddenly I hit the mat, knocked down.

“One... two... stay the fuck down... four...” Nathan says, and I at least take a little comfort in the fact that he's breathing heavier than he was before. It'd be so easy, giving up. But Katrina would never give up. She's willing to die for her vengeance...

I don't know how I get to my feet, but suddenly I'm up with my fists out, and for some crazy fucking reason, I'm waving Nathan over. “Come on! Is that it, old man?”

Nathan shakes his head and steps forward again, this time back in his typical left-handed stance. His left jab catches me between the eyes, and I eat it, ducking into the punch and throwing everything I have into a right cross that catches him in the side, just under his armpit and causing him to grunt.

He steps back and shakes out his arm. Nodding in respect, he unleashes hell, and I'm forced to just defend again before another sledgehammer explodes in my stomach, and I'm down on one knee.

“Stay the fuck down!” Nathan gasps, stepping back. I hold my stomach and look up at the clock, seeing there's still thirty seconds left. I can survive thirty seconds, hell he’s gasping for breath as much as I am.

I get up, my left hand holding my ribs, and wave him in. “I got a lot more.”

Nathan spits to the side and steps forward again, throwing what he probably thinks is a mercy shot, a looping overhand that if it lands is going to put me into dreamland for quite a while. I weave, coming under the punch and unleashing everything I've got left into a left hook. As weak as I feel right now, it catches Nathan with probably all the force of a sick grasshopper, but still it catches him, and I feel a sense of accomplishment as the bell rings.

He steps back, and wipes a bit of blood from his nose, while I work my jaw and spit, bright red splattering on the mats, but at least no teeth come out. “I did it.”

“You did,” Nathan says, stripping off his glove. He sticks his hand out, and I reciprocate, shaking hands with the man. “I didn't think you had it in you to get up from that second one.”

“Bullshit, you didn't think I'd get up from the first one,” I reply, rubbing my jaw. “Think we can get something to ice this thing? I'm not sure I won't lose a tooth still.”

“Yeah. Let's sit outside, and I'll get you an ice pack.”

We go out by the pool, Nathan going inside and coming back out a minute later with a bag of frozen peas and a couple of bottles of mineral water. I notice that Andrea's still at the dining room table, watching us as Nathan hands me the peas and sits down. He cracks one of the mineral waters and passes it over. “Sorry, no ice packs, but the peas work just fine, too.”

“Thanks. How's the nose?”

“Not bad, didn't break anything. You got my respect for that one,” Nathan says, cracking the other mineral water and taking a drink. “Now... I owe you a story.”

I nod, and swirl some water around in my mouth, washing out what's left of the blood before spitting it onto the lawn. “What makes the grass grow green?” I joke, and Nathan chuckles as I finish the line, ingrained for him but just a movie quote for me. “Blood, blood, blood.”

Nathan takes another drink of his water then leans back. “Samuel Grammercy isn't the saint that his daughter thinks he is. Then again, considering the man left his own daughter behind in this city's foster care system, I guess you already figured that out. But Samuel wasn't even the good cop that the papers made him out to be.”

“What was he?” I ask. “Nathan, I never really got to know the man. And I missed the timeline on his death, which is something I still regret since I missed Katrina going into the system, too.”

“That was Peter's plan,” Nathan says quietly. “The truth is, Samuel worked for Peter, or perhaps it'd be better to say worked for Peter's friends. You see, while Samuel got plenty of busts, the vast majority of them fell into two categories. Either he was busting the guys who were enemies of his employers, or he was doing an end around.”

“What's an end around?” I ask. Nathan smirks and gives me a look. “Seriously. I've been deluded for years, so don't just assume I know fucking everything.”

“Okay. An end around is when Samuel would arrest or bust someone, but then before the case went to trial, something would get screwed up, charges were never pressed, whatever. The key part of an end around though happens in the evidence room. Say that a week ago, the cops made a bust for ten guns. Then Samuel pulls the end around, and in checking in evidence from his bust, things get mixed up, and when the charges are dropped, the evidence is returned to the suspects, but the first case shows only five guns on their bust now. Guess where those other five guns went? Right into Samuel's friends' evidence.”

“And this was profitable?” I ask, surprised. “Seems like a lot for five guns.”

“Oh, Samuel pulled end arounds for more than just five guns,” Nathan said. “He was damn near an expert in doing that sort of evidence tag switch on stolen property, too. Computers, art, currency, anything except drugs. It wasn't that Samuel had a problem with drugs, it's just that NOPD policy is to destroy drugs regardless of whether charges stick or are dropped. He had a whole other funnel system in place for that one.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“He got greedy and lazy. One night, the evidence clerk was some Dudley Do-Right who saw the Detective Lieutenant doing the switcheroo. He went to Internal Affairs, who started to gather evidence on Grammercy. Peter's connections in the NOPD heard about it, but at the time the ADA in town was just as righteous as you could get. Also, this was just a few months after Hurricane Katrina, so the feds were still in town in force. Samuel felt the jaws closing in on him, so he came to Peter for help.”

“A faked death.”

Nathan nods. “We set it up nearly perfectly. The horse show was one of the first big events at the Fair Grounds after the hurricane, and Samuel got his wife to leave her phone behind to give them a reason to send their daughter back and out of the way. Theresa, Katrina's mother, was opposed to it, but Samuel browbeat her into going along with it. Katrina was the perfect witness to leave behind. Young, innocent, and traumatized enough that she didn't notice some of the details. I'd pulled similar jobs faking deaths in the Green Berets, so I was the one tasked with setting it up. I was actually there, although in disguise so Katrina didn't recognize me. After they sent her back, Samuel and Theresa jumped over a concrete wall that was there into a dump truck that was parked below, landing in a giant pile of kitty litter. When Katrina picked up her mother's phone, I hit the switch, blasting the car all to hell. She, of course, didn't see that there was nobody inside, although later two bodies were planted in the wreckage. That was actually done by the first firefighters to respond, a crew that also covers up arsons in that area for Peter and his friends.”

“So what happened to Samuel and Theresa? And how the fuck could they just leave their daughter like that?”

Nathan shakes his head. “That I don't know. I spent weeks unable to sleep after I had to hold that little girl, sobbing in my lap before the cops arrived. She was so distraught she never realized, even though she'd seen me... what, by then it had to be hundreds of times. I took her home more than once, you know.”

“Why was that?”

Nathan sips at his water again, and sighs. “Peter isn't the only DeLaCoeur who has had a few affairs. Not that I blame Maggie, with the way Peter's treated her over the years. But some of those play dates or business meetings... well, Samuel was doing more than having drinks with Margaret. I doubt she knows about the faked deaths. Peter probably wouldn't have filled her in, since it would hurt her more to think Samuel died back then.”

“What do you know about them now?” I ask, sipping my water. Nathan's showing at least a little bit of guilt, and as long as I have that, I'm going to drive with it, trying to use it to the best of my advantage. My jaw aches, but the peas help some. I'm more numbed by the idea of what Samuel did to his daughter, though. “Where's he live?”

Nathan shakes his head. “After the bomb, I only saw Samuel Grammercy one more time. Peter had gotten him some top-flight fake IDs, good enough to pass anything short of the FBI, and I delivered it to him at the airport. He and Theresa were booked on a flight, but I never troubled myself to find out where. Safer and less guilty to not know.”

“Miami,” I inform him, sitting back on the lounge chair. “That's a hell of a burden to carry for the past ten years, Nathan. I have a feeling it's not your lightest, either.”

“I've seen some things,” Nathan agrees. “Your point is?”

“You said it yourself. Maybe it's time to start balancing your ledger. I know that you can't stop Peter from sending other men against Katrina. But that doesn't mean you can't help us, too.”

“Us?”

I shrug. “Regardless of if she's doing it for the right reasons or not, her cause is noble. I told her I'd help her, too. I'm asking you... whose side of this are you on?”

“Seems like an easy choice,” Nathan says after sitting still for a few minutes, watching the moon reflected in the black mirror of the pool. “On one hand, there's Peter, who's made me a rich man, a lot richer than I'd have been if I'd stayed in the Army, or if I'd gotten a job with a more legitimate employer as a real security officer. He's connected, and one of the most dangerous men along the Gulf Coast. On the other hand, I have a crazy twenty-two-year-old girl, with barely a dime to her name most likely, and my employer's son, who until just about an hour ago, I thought was more or less a spoiled little bitch.”

“Bitch, huh? I would have thought I at least rated being called a spoiled little prick, but all right,” I joke, not as offended by his words as I would have been even a week or so ago. Now, it means nothing to me. I have something more important than my ego to worry about. “It does seem like an easy choice.”

Nathan nods. “It does. So... how best can I help you guys?”

“Let me find out what Katrina wants to do, and I'll be in touch with you. Until then, I'd say just keep trying to distract Peter from finding her.”

“I can do that. Now, if you don't mind, I need some meditation and a little shut-eye. Goodnight, Jackson.”

“Goodnight. Oh, and Nathan?”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind if I joined you for tea tomorrow? I'd like to talk more about... things.”

Nathan nods and gives me half a smile. “I'd say that would be possible. But first, make sure you do your reading for your sister. I'd hate to disappoint her.”

“How'd you know about that?”

Nathan laughs. “I'm the head of security for this house. It's my job to know as much as possible. Goodnight, Jackson.”