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that pertinent piece of information. But even now, at my lowest of lows, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t lie to Hank. “Hell or high water, I’m going to get reinstated.”
    A shadow crossed his face. “It’s not the only game in town.”
    â€œTo me it is.”
    â€œWell . . .” He rested his forearms on the table. “You’re not a cop yet.”
    My eyes dropped to his mouth. He had a thin, cruel upper lip, with a full lower one. The same shaped mouth as every Batman and Captain America comic book I’d ever read. A superhero mouth. It would be so easy to just lean in and . . . Flynn’s voice echoed in my head. “Don’t do anything stupid, Snap.”
    I sat back in my chair. “I think maybe I should go home now.”
    â€œOkay.”
    We finished our drinks and left. Too soon, Hank pulled onto my street and stopped a block away from my house.
    â€œUm, my house is—”
    â€œI know where you live.” He got out, opened my door, and held out his hand.
    I let him help me out of the car. When I went to take my hand from his, he laced his fingers through mine. “Why are we walking?”
    â€œI like it.”
    The automatic outdoor lights turned on as I opened the gate and we went up the driveway. At the sidewalk I stutter-stepped and stopped. “There’s something I ought to tell you. . . .”
    Hank smiled at me in equal parts irritation and indulgence. “The story of ‘Hang ’em High’ July Pruitt and Conn McGrane?”
    He knew.
    Of course he did.
    Our birth mother died the night I was born. Killed by a multiple-offender fat cat in a DUI collision. When the Chicago machine let him off with a warning, the assistant state’s attorney, the young black high-flier July Pruitt, quit and joined the powerhouse firm of Douglas and Corrigan on the condition she work McGrane v. Westbrook pro bono. July won a twelve-million-dollar civil suit, Da’s heart, and adopted the six of us to boot.
    I pinched the bridge of my nose. It wasn’t . . . I just couldn’t bear the thought of Hank looking surprised when he saw Mom. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œDon’t be.” We walked up the front steps and stopped at the front door.
    â€œLaw Number One, isn’t it?” My vision blurred. “I am defined by my disasters.”
    â€œBaby, your disaster is only beginning.” And then he kissed me. Hard, possessive, and . . . fleeting. “Mutts are running the bleachers tomorrow. St. Mary’s. Oh-six-hundred.”
    â€œYeah,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “Okay.”
    He reached around and opened the door. I went in. “Good night,” he said, closing it behind me.
    Â 
    The house was unusually dark and quiet. I walked to the back hall to drop my purse and heard the faint whine of the lathe. Da was still up. I went into the garage. The farthest of the six stalls had been converted into my father’s workshop. I opened the door to the warm smell of sawdust. He stood at the machine, laboring over his latest project, a pair of George Nakashima–inspired walnut chairs for Daicen.
    I waited until he finished. “Hi, Da.”
    He turned and flipped his protective glasses up onto his head. “Hullo, you.”
    My smile turned watery. “I’m sorry I let you down.”
    â€œYou could never.” He set down the wood and sandpaper and came around the workbench to hug me tight. He let go. “Bah, I’ve covered you in dust.”
    â€œThat’s the least of my problems.”
    He didn’t take the bait. Instead he picked up the spindle and began to sand. “How was your date?”
    â€œAwful and wonderful.”
    â€œWhat’s he like?”
    I brushed the powder-fine dust off my chest, thinking. “Us,” I said finally. “He’s like us.”
    â€œJaysus, Mary, and Joseph!” he said in a thick brogue. “Then