Page 63 of Cowboy

I turn slowly. Hands up. My heart is hammering.

There’s a man standing in the shadows of the entryway. I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before. He’s older than me, maybe early forties, and dressed in black, nothing flashy. No gang colors, no mask. But there’s something about him that makes my stomach turn to ice.

He doesn’t look dangerous.

He looks... patient.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

“I just wanted to look around.”

He tilts his head slightly. “That’s not why people come back to scenes like this. They come back because they feel drawn to it. Because they made a mistake and want to fix it.”

He steps forward and I catch the glint of the gun in his waistband.

“You looking to fix something, Dylan?”

My blood runs cold. “How do you know my name?”

“We know a lot,” he says simply.

I swallow hard. “Where’s Ciarán?”

He ignores the question. “You’re the one with the sister, yeah? Fourteen. Living with an aunt who doesn’t know what to do with you. Parents dead in a crash six months ago. Ring a bell?”

He says it like it’s a grocery list.

Like my entire life is a series of bullet points.

I say nothing.

“You’re not here for a second look. You’re here because you’re scared. You saw something you weren’t supposed to. And now you’re wondering if it’s going to come knocking.”

Still, I don’t speak. I don’t trust myself to.

He takes another step closer, then stops. “Let me tell you how this works, Dylan. You’ve got two options. And I suggest you think carefully before you answer.”

My throat feels dry. “Options?”

“One, you walk away. And you hope no one sees you again. You go back to your tiny flat and your broken aunt and your sister who depends on you more than you know. And you wait for the fear to catch up.”

I shift my weight, ready to bolt. He doesn’t flinch.

“Or two,” he continues, “you come with me. You work for us. We’ll give you a name, a purpose, money. All under the table. No one will know. For all they’re concerned, you’ll be dead.”

I stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking.

He’s not.

He’s not offering a job. He’s offering an erasure. A clean slate.

“Why me?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“Because you’re clever,” he says. “You’re loyal. You follow your best friend into hell without blinking. That’s rare. And because you’ve got nothing left. That makes you useful.”

I hate how true that sounds.

I picture Caoimhe’s face. The worry in her eyes when I came home late. The way she tries to act like she’s okay even when she’s falling apart. I’ve been everything to her since Mam and Dad died. Brother. Parent. Protector. But I’m sixteen. I’m tired. I’m scared. I’m pretending to be someone I’m not every single day just to keep her afloat.