And why Victor wouldn’t.

IN THE DREAM, she was on a beach. A beach unlike any she’d ever actually seen, the likes of which she booked trips to for other people. Soft white sand, rustling palms, and no one for miles and miles.

She was in a hammock, in a bikini, and her belly was enormous. Ripe as tropical fruit. Swollen and heavy with child. She was eating a mango. The juice ran slick down her chin. The sound of the waves was steady and constant, each paving the way for the one to follow.

When she woke on the couch in her apartment, sweating and awkward, twisted into the cushions, the first thing that hit was joy. Then she realized that it had just been a dream. And for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she began to cry.

She wasn’t much of a crier, and it took her by surprise. Was she crying because of the dream? Because she wanted a child? Or was it deeper than that?

Maybe she just wanted life to matter. To mean something. Maybe that was all she’d ever really wanted. A life engaged. No more games, no more calculated distance and ironic detachment. Everything else was a smoke screen, crap sold to her by Hollywood. After all, now that she was living her adventure, what she really wanted was to take it all back. Not just the robbery-the years. All that time wasted, the hours and months pissed away instead of seized with both hands. She’d watched life flow by like it would never end, like there was always more.

But there wasn’t. What she had squandered was gone, and where she had ended up wasn’t where she wanted to be.

After a while, the tears slowed. She felt vaguely self-conscious as she wiped her face. Lying in a dark room, crying existential tears, it was sort of pathetic. She stood and washed her face in the bathroom. The cold water brought color to her cheeks, snapped her mind back to her body. Her head hurt, and she realized she was hungry. No food since breakfast, and it was after nine.

It was as she was walking back from the Thai place at the end of the block that the police arrived.

CHAPTER 30

THE COP WAS A GOOD-LOOKING GUY, broad-shouldered and tall, his face ruddy and hair neat. “Ms. Lacie? I’m Detective Peter Bradley. Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?”

Her heart went fluttery. She forced herself to stay calm. So this was it. This was how it would end. “About what?”

“Why don’t we talk inside?”

She nodded, stepped past him, led the way up the stairs to her apartment.

“Thanks for your time. This won’t take too long.”

“Uh, sure,” she said. Wondering what the hell he was talking about, how he thought it wouldn’t take long. Wouldn’t take the rest of her life. “Coffee?”

“I’m OK.” He followed her into the kitchen, watched as she set down the carryout bag. “Go ahead and eat if you like.”

“What’s this about?”

“It’s about a robbery. And a homicide.”

She was reaching in her cabinet as he spoke, and her hand fumbled. The glass she almost had slipped, hung for a long fraction of a second, and then fell. It burst against her countertop, glittering pieces flying in all directions. “Shit.”

“Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” she said, feeling anything but. “Just clumsy.”

“There’s no reason to be nervous,” he said. Then he cocked one corner of his mouth up in a little smile. “Unless you have a lot of parking tickets I don’t know about.”

She shook her head, forced a smile over her shoulder as she began to collect the broken shards. Her mind felt like the one time she’d tried acid, like it was on a relentless slalom, racing in all directions with reckless, slippery speed. Mitch had begged her not to tell the police anything. But was he right?

“Why don’t we sit down?” The detective’s eyes roamed her kitchen with easy habit.

“I’d rather stand.”

He shrugged. “Well, what I wanted to talk to you about. You know a restaurant named Rossi’s?”

Here it comes. “Sure.”

“This Tuesday, there was a robbery there. Several men broke in, tied up the owner and a bartender, and made off with some money from the safe.”

She started to say, I know. Then knew that she would have to follow that with I was one of them, and froze up. Simply couldn’t make her tongue work.

The detective continued. “On the way out the back door, they shot and killed a man.” His voice was matter-of-fact, almost bored.

And it occurred to her, finally, that he wasn’t here for her. That he didn’t know. The surge of relief was an almost physical thing.

Hard on its heels was confusion. If that wasn’t the reason he was here, then what was? And regardless, wouldn’t now be the time to make things right?

“Do you remember the last time you went to the restaurant?”

“Umm.” A lie? The truth? The guy had to know something. Better not to lie without knowing what. “I think it was Tuesday, actually.”

He nodded, and something in him seemed to relax.

She said, “I often meet a couple of friends there.”

“Were you meeting them that night?”

“No.” Technically true. Jenn had finished piling the glass on the counter, and to have something to do with her hands, she opened the cabinet again, took out a plate. “Why?”

“Well, I’m investigating the incident. We’re trying to get as complete a picture as possible. We pulled the credit card records for the evening, and saw that you paid your bill a few minutes before everything happened.”

She had an urge to laugh. What rotten criminals they made. That the police might look at something like that had never occurred to her.

“Do you remember anything about that evening?”

“I had a martini, I think.”

He smiled. “I meant more like, do you remember anything unusual. Anyone acting strange, or seeming to pay a lot of attention to the staff? Any sort of fight or altercation?”

You mean besides the one where we killed someone in the back alley? She stared at him, realized that if she was going to speak, now was the time. Maybe there would be consequences to pay, maybe Mitch would end up in trouble. But at least it would all be over. The police could step in and protect their families, catch Victor tomorrow. All she had to do was tell the truth. Just own up, take responsibility, and be done with everything.

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

SHE HAD SOLD HIM OUT.

Mitch stood at the end of her block, shaking. The anger flowed from some hard hot center, radiating in fiery waves. His fists were clenched and his arms were trembling as he watched a cop walk out of Jenn’s apartment.

At first he hadn’t been sure. It was after ten, and raining, and the cop just looked like a guy in a suit. But when he’d stopped on the porch to look at the sky, his jacket had pulled open to reveal a gun and star. A detective. As Mitch watched, the man hurried out into the rain, heading for a pale sedan parked in front of the fire hydrant.

She had called the police. After everything he had done for her. After everything they had shared. After promising not to.

She had called the police, and she had doomed him.

Mitch dropped to a squat, pretended to tie his shoelace as the cop drove past. A lucky break that Jenn didn’t know he would be here. After they had parted, he’d walked and walked, let his mind run. Thinking about Johnny and Victor and the money and the four of them. And especially about her. About whatever had been going on between her and Alex. Because something certainly had.

And it had hit him, as he walked, that if it had, it had probably been going on for a while. So many shared looks he’d sort of registered, so many conversational dodges and changed subjects. They had probably been sleeping together for a while. And that whole time, they had kept it a secret.