The wedding was being held at a beach house in Santa Monica, the kind of place that cost more to rent for one night than most people earned in a year. White linens, white flowers, white tablecloths. Everything white, as if money could bleach the world clean.

Flick Rourke stood at the edge of the terrace, watching the guests arrive. He was thirty years old, and he had been lying to people for most of his life. It was not a profession so much as a survival strategy. In the underground world of Los Angeles, where loyalty was a currency that depreciated faster than a used car and trust was a liability you could not afford, Flick had learned to make his fingers move faster than anyone's and his mouth smile wider than anyone's. They called him Flick because of his hands—fast, precise, impossible to track.

His act was a combination of magic and acrobatics. He could make a coin disappear and reappear behind your ear. He could walk across a tightrope strung between two chairs. He could juggle six balls while balancing on one foot. The guests at Tony Moretti's son's wedding would clap, they would laugh, they would throw money on the floor, and Flick would pick it up with a bow and a smile and a thank you, sir, and a thank you, ma'am, and a wink that said: I am harmless. I am entertainment. I am not a threat.

He did not tell them that five years ago, he had gone to prison for a crime that Silas Brennan had committed for him.

He did not tell them anything. He told them what they wanted to hear. That was his talent. That was his gift. That was his sin.

In the parking lot, Silas watched the guests arrive from behind the wheel of a 1998 Honda Civic that had seen better decades. He was thirty-two, tall and broad-shouldered with a face that looked like it had been carved from someone else's idea of what a strong man should look like. He had just gotten out of prison five years ago, and the world had changed in ways he was still trying to understand. Smartphones. Social media. A country that looked the same but felt different, like a house that had been redecorated while you were away and now everything was in the wrong place.

He had come to California because Flick had called him from a collect call and said, "I'm clean, Mole. I'm out of the game. I need you to come out here. We can start over."

Silas had started over. He had gotten an apartment in Long Beach. He had gotten a job at a warehouse. He had gone to therapy. He had learned to sleep through the night without dreaming about the things he had seen and the things he had done.

But Flick needed him. And Flick was the only person who had ever looked at Silas and seen something worth seeing.

So Silas had driven from Tennessee to California in a car that smelled like old fast food and regret, and he had arrived at Flick's apartment with two suitcases and a heart full of hope, and Flick had hugged him and said, "You're my brother, Mole. You're my brother."

And Silas had believed him.