“What happened?” Turner asked.

“He took me by surprise. He had something in his hand.”

“Okay,” Turner said. But he wasn’t okay. His heart was hammering away in his chest. The body was still warm. Tuttle had been hit almost directly in the center of his chest, as if he’d stood still for it. He was wearing a T-shirt, jeans. He had to be cold, Turner thought. The heat wasn’t on in here. There was no furniture. It had snowed just two days before. And the room was barren—no old cigarettes or food wrappers, not even a blanket. There were no signs he or anyone else had been squatting here.

He’d come here to meet someone. Maybe Carmichael.

“We don’t have much time,” Car said. He was calm, but Car was always calm. “Let’s get our stories straight.”

What story was there to get straight? And where was the mysterious object Tuttle was supposed to have had in his hand?

“Here,” said Car. He had a white rabbit by the neck. It was wriggling in his fist, its soft feet treading the air, its eyes wide, the whites showing. Turner could see its heart thumping against its furry chest.

Then he blinked and Car was holding a gun out to him. “Wipe it,” he said.

Turner had meant to be stern, but he found a nervous smile spreading across his face. “You can’t be serious.”

“Ambulance is gonna be here soon. Rat squad and the rest. Don’t screw around, Turner.”

Turner looked at the gun in Carmichael’s hand. “Where did you get it?”

“Found it at a scene a while back. Call it an insurance policy.”

Insurance. A gun they could plant on Tuttle. “We don’t have to—”

“Turner,” Carmichael said. “You know I’m good police and you know how close I am to punching out. I need you to back me here. The kid drew on me. I discharged my sidearm. That’s all there is to it. A good clean shoot.”

Good. Clean.

But everything about this felt wrong. Not just the shoot. Not just the body cooling on the floor behind him.

“What was he doing here, Car?”

“The fuck do I know? I got a tip, I followed it.”

But none of that added up. Why had they been chasing their tails for weeks on what should have been a routine investigation into a series of robberies? Where were the goods Tuttle had supposedly taken? Why hadn’t Tuttle run when he heard Carmichael pounding at the door? Because he’d been expecting him. Because Carmichael had set him up.

“You were meeting him here. He knew you.”

“Don’t start getting smart, Turner.”

Turner thought of the new deck Carmichael had put on his house last summer. They’d sat out there, barbecuing, drinking longnecks, talking about Turner’s career. Car had said his brother-in-law was a contractor, got him a deal. Turner had known he was lying, but it hadn’t bothered him.

Most police who had been around long enough were a little bent, but that didn’t make them crooked. And he’d already seen Car’s wife wore better clothes than any detective’s wife should. Turner knew his labels, he liked a nice suit, and the women he dated appreciated that he could speak that language. He could tell a genuine Chanel bag from a knockoff, and Car’s wife always had the real thing slung over her arm.

Bent, not crooked. But maybe Turner had been wrong about that.

In the distance, a siren began to wail. They couldn’t be more than a minute or two away.

“Turner,” Carmichael said. His eyes were steady. “You know what the choice is here. I go down, you go down with me. There are questions about me, there are going to be questions about you too.” He held the gun out. “This fixes all of it for us. You’re too good to be brought down by my fuckup.”

He was right about that. Turner felt himself reaching for the gun, saw the weapon in his hands.

“And what if I say no?” Turner asked, now that the gun was out of Car’s reach. “What if I say there was nothing in Tuttle’s record to indicate he was slick enough to get away with multiple B&Es without help?”

“You’re reaching, Turner.”

He was. He didn’t know how involved Car had been in the robberies.

Maybe he’d just taken a little cash or a spare laptop to look the other way.

But the prickle was telling him that this was no mistake. It wasn’t a fuckup.

It was a setup. And King Tut was only part of it.

Carmichael shrugged. “Your prints on that piece, kid. Your word against mine. You’ve got a bright future. I knew that first time I met you. But you can’t do the job alone. You need friends, people you can trust. Can I trust you, Turner?”

The prickle racing over Turner’s skull turned to the crackle of wildfire. If he was involved with Tuttle and the robberies, why not get rid of him quietly?

Why bring Turner here to witness the shoot?

Turner saw it all then. Car hadn’t just chosen him as cover because he was Black. He’d chosen him because Turner was ambitious—so hungry to get ahead, he could be nudged. He could be used. Tuttle’s dead body was Carmichael’s chance to bring Turner into the fold. Two birds with one stone.

Once Turner wiped the gun and wrapped Tuttle’s finger around that trigger, once he repeated Carmichael’s lies, he would belong to Big Car.

“You set this up. You set me up.”

Carmichael looked almost impressed. “I’m watching over you, kid. I always have. There’s no big decision to make here. Do the smart thing and you’re on the fast track, my heir apparent. There will be nothing in your way.

Or try to play hero and see how far it gets you. I have a lot of friends, Turner.

And it won’t just be you who feels the heat from this particular burn. Think about your mama, your granddad, how proud they are of you.”

Turner tried to understand how he’d walked into a pile of shit this big.

Why hadn’t he seen trouble coming this time? Or had he just gotten complacent? He’d been waiting for disaster so long, he’d gotten too used to fear. His alarms had tripped so often, he’d started ignoring them. And now he was crouching by a dead body, being threatened by a man who could destroy his career with a whispered word, who wouldn’t think twice about

hurting the people he loved if he wronged him. He was about to cross a line into a country he didn’t want to know. He would never find his way home.

“I don’t want to do this,” Turner said. “I’m … I’m not a criminal.”

“Neither am I. I’m a man doing his best in a tough situation, just like you.

Doing wrong doesn’t make you wrong.”

But it might. Turner wasn’t stupid enough to believe this would be the last favor, the last lie. This was only the beginning. Car would always have more friends and better connections. He’d always be a threat to Turner’s family, his career. Do the wrong thing and he’d keep rising, so long as he kept Car’s secrets, followed his commands. Do the right thing and he’d tank his career and put his family in Carmichael’s crosshairs. Those were his choices.

“That kid you killed,” said Turner. “That was a bad shoot, wasn’t it?”