Not Even Past Read Free Page B

years ago. Sanchez apparently had an eye for business, or the cops had an affinity for him. He probably gave his boss up to the cops.
    Jesus shook Donne’s hand. He didn’t say anything, just waited for Donne to explain.
    The story of the email and Jeanne came easily out of Jackson, like a waterfall. He spat the words out, and when he was done he was out of breath.
    “Holy shit,” Jesus said. He wiped at his nose. “Why are you here?”
    “Where else would I go?”
    Jesus shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and turned away from Donne. He headed up Dumont toward Douglass College. He stopped after a few steps.
    “Go home, Jackson. I don’t know shit.”
    For an instant, Donne believed him. He ground the heel of his shoe into the sidewalk and started to turn. But something tickled at the back of his neck. Maybe just a spark of his old instincts trying to fire up again. He froze.
    “You’re lying,” Donne said.
    Jesus tilted his head. “What you say?”
    “You heard me.”
    Now Jesus’s head started to shake. Back and forth slowly.
    “Don’t do this, Jackson.”
    “Do what?”
    Jesus turned back toward Donne, but he was looking further down the road. He waved. Donne turned his head. As he did, his gut tightened. A black car rolled toward them. Tinted windows, shiny rims.
    “I like you this way, Jackson,” Jesus said. “The new you. You’re happy, and this new girl, she seems good for you.”
    “How—”
    Again Jesus shook his head. “The old you rushed into things. Didn’t think. Fuck. You should be dead.”
    Donne didn’t say a word. The car rolled up and stopped at the curve.
    “I didn’t like the old me either. Scared. Talkative. Not no more. I buried him.” Jesus pulled the passenger door of the car open. “You should do the same. Old you comes back, it ain’t gonna be for long.”
    “It’s Jeanne,” Donne said. “They have her. And they said I have to help her.”
    “You don’t even know who they are. And you’re better off that way. Go home. Study.”
    “She might die.”
    Jesus got into the car and shut the door. He rolled the window down.
    “And how is that different from what you thought yesterday?”
    He rolled the window up as the car pulled away from the curb.

T HREE MINUTES .
    The parking meter had been expired for three minutes. The driver, who had exited the car thirty-three minutes ago, was nowhere in sight. Bill Martin tapped twice on the steering wheel, exhaled, and allowed himself a smile.
    Time to go to work.
    He grabbed the summons and got out of his car. After straightening his tie, he crossed the street and stopped at the Volvo—one that belonged to a Mr. Shaun Smith. Smith—Martin loved the alliteration—couldn’t be more than a sophomore and was probably getting used to parking on campus. And by getting used to it, Martin meant not doing it. The university had one of the largest private bussing systems in the country. Don’t try to goose the meter.
    People like Bill Martin were watching. And he was going to do his job.
    After writing down the license plate number, Martin started to fill in the rest of the summons. The scratch of pen against paper made his smile grow even wider. None of this newfangled computer crap. Pen and paper—the right way to do things.
    “Hey! Hey, wait!”
    Martin looked up from the pad. Shaun Smith was running away from College Avenue toward him. Two pieces of change flew from his hand and clattered against the sidewalk. The kid stopped for a second, looked at the sidewalk, and then gave up—rushing again toward Martin.
    Martin let his arms fall to his side, still gripping the pen and pad.
    “Officer, please!” Smith skidded to a halt in front of Martin. “I’m just—wait a second. Are you even a cop?”
    “I’m writing you a ticket, aren’t I?” Martin asked.
    “Where’s your uniform?”
    Martin shrugged his shoulders. He pulled his sports jacket open and flashed the badge on his belt.
    “I’ve been around a