I lift the picture for closer inspection. It isn’t a mug shot; it’s a surveillance shot, and from what I can see, there’s absolutely nothing remarkable about the guy. Dark hair displayed under his ball cap, average build, around the same age as me—maybe a couple years older. That’s basically all I can make out. “And?” I ask.

“And he’s who you need to get close to. He runs the fights, but like we said, we suspect it’s a cover up for the drugs. You need to get to know him. You need to live and breathe him. And if you can do that—get in his circle, get in his head—then it can lead us to the people responsible for Steve–” He cuts himself off and looks down at the table, realizing the mistake he was about to make. “For the deaths...” he corrects himself.

“And what do you get out of it?”

“Justice.”

2

THE FIGHTS, JACKSON told me, are held in basements of bars throughout Philly. You can buy your way in with a five grand VIP membership. The memberships were limited to two hundred. You show up and act like a dick; your membership’s revoked.

The venues are announced to a maximum of only sixty people, chosen randomly, via text message two hours before fight night begins. In order to get into the basements, you needed to meet at somewhere off-site first, show the message on your phone, text it back to a number, and they mark it off the list.

Obviously, Jackson had prepared all of this in the few days since I’d agreed to the deal.

I did everything that was asked of me, and now I find myself standing in the basement of a bar I’d never stepped foot in before. The place is exactly how I imagined—tiny room with barely enough space to move. The crowd’s rowdy, but obviously interested enough in the fights that they’d fork out five grand just to watch.

But I don’t watch the fights. Instead, I watch the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of a man I’ve never met before. The man whose life I’m about to ruin. His name—Nate DeLuca—repeats in my head over and over, playing hostage in my mind. I have to live and breathe him; that’s what Jax said. And that’s what I plan to do. Because Jax isn’t just some newbie detective.

He isn’t even an old friend.

Jax is my brother.

KY

Age Fifteen

I was sitting out on the roof again while mayhem ensued in my house. I’d been in bed for over an hour before finally throwing the covers off and accepting that sleep would be impossible. Holding my arm close to my chest—I maneuvered my bedroom window open and climbed out onto the roof, ignoring the sudden outbreak of goose bumps pricking my skin. I wondered for a moment if he’d managed to dislocate my shoulder this time, or just separate it. Yeah, I’d done enough research online to know there’s a difference. Tonight’s reason for my beating—Dad was drunk. That was it. There were also people over again. Him, combined with alcohol and an audience, always made for a good time for everyone.

Everyone but me.

Even though I was big for my age, I was no competition for him. Give it a year—it might have been a different story. Even if I could have taken him, I sure as shit wouldn’t try. It’d make me just as bad as him, and the last thing I ever wanted to be was him.

Sitting down slowly, I rested my arms on my bent knees and looked up at the stars.

“I wish I may, I wish I might,” I whispered. Then I laughed. “Fuck your wish.”

“Ky!” My eyes snapped to the sound.

Jackson was half hanging out his window, his hand waving from side to side.

“What’s up?” I said, not lifting my head. I didn’t want him to see the freshly swelled bruises around my eyes. Or the cut on my jaw. Or the fact I was a pussy and hiding out from my dad.

From the corner of my eye, I saw his mouth a few times, probably unsure about what to say—or ask—especially since he most likely knew the answers. Finally, he yelled, “You, uh...want to come over? I got the new Halo on Xbox.”

I didn’t respond with words, but I slowly came to a stand, dusting off my jeans that were at least three sizes too big. He told me to meet him at his back door, and a minute later I was there, hands shoved in my pockets as I tried to settle my uncontrollable shivers. He led me up to his room and handed me a hoodie that was way too big for him. I eyed it suspiciously. That made him laugh. “It’s an NYU sweatshirt—my dad’s way of pushing me to go there. It won’t fit me for years.” I pulled it over my head, and then sat in front of his TV—my eyes cast downwards the entire time. He sat down next to me, handed me a controller, and finally said, “You played before?”

I shook my head—my gaze fixed on the controller in my hand. And then I chuckled, the sound surprising to my own ears. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of these before.”

We spent the entire night playing Halo until the sun started to come up. In that room, in that one night, we became the most unlikely of friends. Not because he was some kid trying to save me, or because I was a kid that needed saving...or the other way around. We became friends because in between the few words spoken, the few laughs we shared, and the few times we lost control of those laughs, we saw each other for what we were; just boys that liked to laugh and shoot the shit out of our enemies in an overdramatic video game.

I named his character Captain Victory.

He laughed and named mine Captain Combative.

After that night, I spent most nights sleeping on his bedroom floor. He offered me his bed, but I refused every time. Sleeping on the hardwood floor was a shit ton better than what I’d been used to.

Most nights, I’d wait for all the lights to switch off in his house, then I’d throw a rock at his window. There weren’t any rocks around our house so we’d started collecting them on the way home and piling them up on his side of the fence. Some nights, he wouldn’t respond. I knew he was just doing it to fuck with me because after a while of me waiting for him, I’d eventually throw a handful, and each time I’d hear his loud-ass giggle from inside his room.

Punk.

A few months later, I came over and there was a bunk bed in his room. I asked him where he got the money. He told me he’d taken up beating on scrawny defenseless kids and taking their lunch money as a hobby.

By then, I’d met his parents a few times. Mostly when we hung out at his house after school and his mom was home.

They’d wait until his dad, Jeff, got home from work to settle down for dinner. His mom, Christine, would ask me to stay and have a meal with them. I’d always politely decline, feeling too out of place with Jackson and his picture-perfect family. At night, I’d be in and out of their house while Jeff and Christine were asleep, or at least we all pretended it was that way. But every night I’d come over and he’d pull out a plate of food from the fridge and heat it up. “Leftovers,” he’d tell me.

Then, one night, everything changed.

The night of my sixteenth birthday.

I skipped the throwing of the rocks on his window and did everything physically possible just to make it to his back door.

I’d never asked for help—but I needed it.

Because that night, I needed to get the fuck away from my dad. If I didn’t—I was positive he would’ve killed me.