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“Come now, love. I want to see Callie’s Naughty Chest.”

I almost fight him on it. Even though he’s seen my worst, this is not a collection I’m proud of.

But then, this is what our relationship is built on: we share our dirty little secrets with one another, things that no one else might accept us for.

So eventually I lift my hand. “Fine.”

The flaps pop open once more. My heart’s pounding a little faster, and my fingers are a little twitchy. No one else has seen what’s in this container.

The first thing that levitates out is a gold necklace. A man’s gold necklace. It pools in Des’s waiting hand.

“What’s the story behind this?” he asks.

If I close my eyes, I can still see the man clearly. Wiry, lean frame; mean, squinty eyes. Not all my targets look like bad people, but this one did.

“Keith Sampson. His ex wanted sole custody of their children, so she had me dig up dirt on him. Among the long list of very fucked up shit he did in his life, he beat his wife, sold drugs to minors, and he got his daughter hooked on heroin so that ‘the cow could lose some fucking weight.’”

Just remembering Keith has my siren stirring with agitation.

“What did you do to him?” Des asks, curious.

Grovel. Cry. Demean himself.

“I made him turn himself in.”

“Hmm,” Des says, staring at the necklace.

I get the distinct impression he’s listening to the shadows right now. That theory only solidifies when he smirks, then sets the piece of jewelry aside.

The next thing that comes out is a hand drawn map.

“Arnold Mattis,” I say.

His girlfriend, Christina Ruiz, had hired me to … deal with Arnold.

“Several years ago, Arnold beat, raped, then repeatedly stabbed his girlfriend after she tried to leave him.” The crime scene photos still haunt me. “He got off with rape and assault charges, was sentenced to ten to thirty years, but was put on parole early.”

When I found Arnold, he had that map on him, Christina’s address written out on it. Along with the map, he had bleach, rope, duct tape, and a hammer stowed away in the trunk of his car.

“What happened to him?”

“Ihappened.”

Arnold and I played a game called An Eye for an Eye. He didn’t like it much. I did.

Next to come out of the box is an embroidered iron-on patch of a flaming skull. It lands in Des’s palm, a bit of black leather still clinging to it.

“Racist biker.”

The Bargainer waits for more explanation.

I shrug. “I don’t know. It was a bad day and he pissed me off.”

That guy wassuchan asshole. And I had absolute power over him, despite his enormous size and his white hot temper.

Des pulls out a tooth. He holds the incisor up. “Cherub, this looks more like my work than yours.”

Now that he mentions it, it does.