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I ignore the joke. Only looking at the goods. “This thing’s clean?”

I feel Krye stare at me again, another nice, long one. Kind of stare that could melt through steel. But then he gives up.

“As whistle,” he says. “Serial number, registration, whole kit and caboodle.”

“Great.” I reach for it with one hand, going for my back pocket, the cash, with the other. “How much?”

But Krye pulls back.

“Forgive me, mik, but…” He takes a few steps to the side and sets the little bundle on top of the washing machine, just out of reach. Next to the goddamn box of dryer sheets. “I have to ask.”

“Do you?” I glare up at him with more venom than I expected, than he expected, maybe, because for the first time, in the ugly-ass fluorescent vampire lighting of his basement, I see Krye look…worried. Puzzled. Eyebrows all drawn, mouth a little open. Like I’m about to go bungee jumping with a homemade rope.

Like he’s my dad, or something.

“I thought you say—and these are your words, not mine”—he presses a hand to his chest—“that this, these”—he gestures at the washing machine again, the bundle lying there all casual like it’s a fuckin’ Tide Pod—“are for lazy people. Cowards.”

I stare at him. Long, even, as patient as I can make myself be. Until finally, it seems to click.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

Yeah. Turns out that’s me.

Always has been.

“How much,” I repeat. No attitude, no edge. Just need the information.

“For you, mik?”

No, for someone else. Like I’m stupid enough to add trafficking on top of possession.

Krye thinks. “Three hundred.”

“Done.” I got four-fifty for the jacket. I flip the bills from my pocket and count out two, three, four hundreds. “Keep the change.” I hand them to Krye between two fingers.

“Pan, no⁠—”

“I don’t care,” I say. Snap, really. I soften a little. “Don’t need it.”

“And I do?” Now Krye laughs. But it’s a cold laugh. “No.”

He pushes the last hundred back at me. I hold his gaze for a second. Then I snatch it back. No comment. I guess I can leave it somewhere for Tink or Wendy to find, to spend on groceries or whatever.

I nod at the washing machine. “Can I?”

Krye nods back.

I pick it up. Unload it, set the clip down, wrap my hand around the grip. Seat my finger in the trigger well. Tense it into my palm.

“Sig Sauer,” Krye murmurs. “Semiautomatic.”

I dip my chin to show I hear him. Focused elsewhere.

I’ve fired guns before. Not a lot of guns, but enough. It’s not rocket fuckin’ science, that’s for sure. Bing, bang, boom. Dead simple, literally. And that’s what I need this to be. No more cockteasing, cat-and-mouse, mind-game bullshit.

Simple. Over. Done.

And done by me.