Maybe I didn’t want to know. Maybe that was why I’d never asked.

Griffin. Griffin was a good guy, much better than I was sure he knew. He wasn’t so much modest as . . . well, he simply didn’t know. The patience he had with Zeke, it would’ve put Mother Teresa to shame.

He had thick, straight pale blond hair that fell just past the bottoms of his ears. He kept it parted in the middle and when he bowed his head, it hung like a curtain hiding blue eyes. Pacific blue, calm without a single wave to disturb the surface. He looked like a trashy romance novel’s version of an angel. Funny, considering the arson we’d just committed. Funny, considering a lot of things.

Griffin the angel. I smiled to myself. Griffin the angel was Zeke’s guide dog, so to speak. Where Zeke was blind, Griffin could see just fine. You want to do this, but should you? And Zeke listened—and Zeke rarely ever listened to anyone. Griffin, always. Me . . . mostly. Leo . . . sometimes.

Zeke listened to Griffin because they’d grown up in the same foster home. I doubted there were any picket fences or puppies or cupcakes. I doubted they had anyone but themselves and when that’s the case, you bond. Sometimes forever. They’d needed each other and they’d gotten each other. Things do work out for the best.

Sometimes.

I turned around and wrapped my arms around them as we passed stucco buildings with red roofs, my left arm along Griff’s shoulder and my right along Zeke’s. “You owe the Universe big.”

Both snorted, but it was Griffin who asked why. I ignored the question and added, “You also owe me lots and lots of money for all those empty bottles you filled with gasoline.”

He sputtered, “They were empty. You were just going to throw them away anyway.”

“Not so.” I smiled, the flash of my teeth bright in the rearview mirror. “I recycle.”