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I should know. I’ve been on first name terms with addiction in the past, much to my own detriment. And while experts might argue whether my fixation with the Lost Boys fits the criteria, it’s certainly enough for me to wonder what the fuck I’m going to do if I don’t have this anymore.

As I push through a second set of doors, into the heart of the building, the sickly-sweet odor of death pervades the walls, distinct despite the overlay of formaldehyde, and cheap pine disinfectant which does little to disguise it.

I tap on the door to the chief M.E.’s domain, trying not to think too much, even though my mind is awash with questions.

“Come in,” a disembodied voice calls, and I enter, crossing that final threshold which will bring me to absolution.

Simon Barker rises from his seat behind a busy desk and comes around to shake my hand. “Hey, Beck. How have you been? Missed you at the gym recently.”

Simon and I are sweat buddies. We live in the same apartment building, and he’s also into boxing so we normally have a bout or two if we’re there together, though we stop short of making it a definite arrangement.

I clap him on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. My hours have been pretty antisocial lately. I’ve been chasing a story.”

Simon perches on the edge of his desk and looks me in the eye, his expression serious. “This one, by all accounts.”

I nod. We’re friendly enough that he knows about my preoccupation with the Lost Boys case, just not the very personal reasons why.

Few people are privy to that.

You get called a liar a few times, have your memories and convictions undermined by people who don’t believe you, who label you as an attention seeker and a troublemaker, you start keeping that shit to yourself.

“Come on, then. Let’s go and see your guy,” Simon says as he gestures towards the mortuary.

I shiver when we walk through the door. I tell myself it’s because the room is a few degrees cooler thanks to the wall of cold storage, but that’s not really it.

It’s actually a glacial rage that ices my veins. If this bastard wasn’t already dead, I’d fucking kill him. He fucked my life over, and I’ve always been a bit of an eye for an eye kind of guy.

If I ever come face to face with Jesse Russo, I will shake that man’s hand. The coroner might have ruled it as an accidental death since it wasn’t clear whether he died from the fight or the fall. And maybe some strings were pulled on behalf of Oscar Hunt so it wasn’t ruled a homicide, but even if you call it self-defense, the guy’s still on the slab because of Russo.

Right now, though, I just want to see his face. And yeah, okay, so maybe I want to spit on it, too. I don’t have any polished edges. If a judge hadn’t given me the option of military service, instead of juvie, when I got caught robbing a convenience store at seventeen to fund the drug habit I’d fallen into because of what happened, I probably would have turned into a gangbanger instead.

But that and everything else I went through— the drugs, the fighting, the bad attitude, it’s all stemmed from this miserable, perverted fucker.

The bastard beat me, abandoned me in some godforsaken derelict building, and left me to die when the heat was on him. No matter what’s happened in my life between then and now, I want to look at his face and revel in the fact that I’m still here and he is not.

I want to look down on his slowly rotting corpse and know that his known crimes have caught up with him and that any others—because I’m sure there are more—will be uncovered along with his identity.

This is my proof, my redemption.

This is my salvation.

“You ready for this?” Simon asks, as he stops by a cart and checks the ID number.

I clench my fists by my sides and stare at the white covered mound. I’m certainly no angel, but is it weird that I’m thinking that nothing as pure as white should ever have been used to cover this abomination?

I drag my hands down my face, knowing an odd moment of uncertainty. Fuck that shit, this dead man doesn’t get to unnerve me now. Not after everything I’ve been through to get here.

I’m no longer a weak, disbelieved child, haunted by his past. I’m the strong one now.

“Ready,” I bite out before I lose my nerve.

Simon’s hands go to the top of the sheet and start carefully pulling it back.

I clamp my jaw and work on blanking my expression.

Taking a breath, I hold it as the man’s head comes into sight, every cell in my body clenched and on high alert.

It’s twenty years later. I know he’s going to have changed. Gone gray, put on weight, lost his hair. Whatever.