He unzipped his fly in front of the urinal. The truth was he did not want to leave quite yet. He could have the money and keep Gloria – though it could get a little messy. After all, the source of his money supply was a member of her family.

Yes, blackmail was on his mind, plain and simple. But this was no ordinary blackmail scheme. He was not planning on blackmailing an ordinary wrongdoer.

He was going to blackmail his father’s murderer.

Stan grabbed onto the sides of the urinal and steadied himself. Sweat made his clothes cling to his skin uncomfortably. After all these years he had finally seen his father’s killer again. Most sons would cry for blood against such a demon. They would demand biblical justice, an eye for an eye, death. But not Stan. Too many years had passed to play vengeful gunslinger and frankly, Stan was gutless in the ways of violence, always had been. He could report it to the police, but who would believe him? Who would trust the word of a man who waited thirty years to let anyone know that he had witnessed his father’s murder? And with his police record? No way. Forget it.

No, Stan decided, he would have to wreak his own type of vengeance against the killer of his happy childhood. He would let the murderer live in constant fear of being discovered – and make a nice profit for himself in the process.

A rush of nausea swept through him. Sure as God made green apples he was going to vomit. No doubt about it. He hated throwing up but then again, who likes it? It had to be done. Best to get it over with. Besides, maybe he’d feel better after sacrificing a few of those Molotov cocktails to the porcelain gods.

He wove toward the stall, his right shoulder ramming against the metallic side. If he were sober, Stan undoubtedly would have noticed the throbbing pain in his shoulder blade. Fortunately, the alcohol snuffed it out. Stan dropped to his knees, clutched the cold toilet on either side and waited.

That was when he felt someone grab him by the hair.

‘What the -?’

The rest of his words were lost in the icy water. Whoever had grabbed him was strong. Stan’s face lunged forward into the toilet bowl, crashing into the bottom. He could no longer breathe. Panicked, he shook his head back and forth violently, but he could not get free from the vise-like grip, could not find an air-pocket so that he could gather even one more breath into his heaving chest.

‘You son of a bitch!’

Stan could barely make out the words being shouted at him, the toilet water splashing against his ears. I’m going to die, he thought. I’m going to drown in a fuckin’ toilet.

His lungs were ready to burst. Water seeped down his throat. He felt himself choke. His eyes bulged. Thoughts flew out of his mind, replaced by primitive instinct. One primitive instinct. The instinct of survival. He became like any other mammal trapped underwater and unable to breathe. He jerked and bucked and kicked out, but the hand on his head held him down. The assailant shoved Stan’s face further into the water, crushing his nose against the hard bottom of the bowl. Stan saw his own blood flow past him.

His throat burned. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. Death. Drowning. Like David. Is this what it was like, little brother? Is this…?

The powerful grip pulled Stan’s head out of the water and dropped it like an inanimate object. His skull bounced off the porcelain seat and crashed onto the tile floor, but Stan did not notice or care. He gasped and wretched uncontrollably, his hand wrapped around his throat in some bizarre attempt to lessen the pain. He rolled on the floor, desperately trying to put some oxygen back into his sore lungs.

Then he felt the hand clutch his hair again.

‘Oh God, please,’ he managed.

The hand roughly jerked his head back toward the rim of the bowl. It began to push his face downward, stopping less than an inch above the water. Stan’s chest still heaved spasmodically.

‘No, please…’

Stan felt the assailant lower himself toward him, the hold never loosening. Warm breath pricked Stan’s ear and neck. ‘If you ever go near her again,’ the male voice said slowly, ‘I’ll kill you.’

The punch came from nowhere. Stan’s head snapped back from the blow. His body went limp. He slid to the floor as unconsciousness mercifully kicked in.

Mark looked down past his shaking hands to Stan’s still form below him. He clenched his fists, trying to fight off his turbid fury against the no-good son of a bitch. He had never lost control like that, never knew he was capable of such violence against any man. But then again, Stan Baskin was not just any man.

With one foot, Mark flipped Stan onto his back. Stan’s face was covered with blood. Nothing to worry about really. He had not hit him with anything near full force, but in Stan’s inebriated state a love tap would have been enough to knock him out. He still could not believe his eyes. Stan was back. Stan had always been scum and judging by the bits and pieces of conversation between Laura and Stan he had overheard, nothing had changed. Stan was still a sick, demented man.

Why had Stan come to Boston? The answer was fairly obvious: money. Stan figured that the wealthy widow of his late brother would be an easy mark for his cunning ways. And, Mark realized with mounting rage, the fact that Laura happened to be lonely, vulnerable and gorgeous just made her all the more irresistible to lure into his lair.

Son of a bitch.

There was a knock on the door. ‘Mark? You in there?’

Mark quickly moved out of the stall. ‘Are you alone, T.C.?’

‘Yes.’

He reached the door and pulled back the deadbolt. T.C. entered. Mark slammed the door behind him and replaced the lock.

‘What the hell is going on?’ T.C. asked. Then he spotted the open stall door. Glancing into the cubicle, he found Stan’s crumbled body on the floor.

T.C. whistled. ‘What did you do to him?’

‘Played a little game of dunk. Why the hell didn’t you tell me he was here?’

T.C. turned away from the tile floor and shrugged. ‘It was none of your business.’

‘None of my business? Don’t you think you’re taking this – ’

That was when it hit him. Mark clutched his head between his hands, his fingers clawing at his temples. Pain came at him in great, unbearable waves. He sunk to his knees.

T.C. acted without hesitation. He sprinted toward Mark. ‘It’s okay, Mark. I’m right here.’

Mark looked up at him with eyes distorted by pure agony. T.C. placed his arm around his shoulder and helped his friend to his feet. While pain consumed Mark’s every nerve, naked fear seeped into T.C.

It’s back, T.C. thought. The demon is back.

Laura excused herself and moved toward the Blades and Boards Club exit. She just needed a moment away from the crush of family and friends, a few seconds to be by herself and think about David. Evenings like these had a way of going by in a murky haze, but Laura knew that she could only block so long before her protective wall crumbled and reality flowed back in.

She strolled aimlessly down the vacant hall, her mind filled with images of David. She had learned over the past six months that people handle death differently. Some wear their grief on their sleeve. Others try to avoid pain by pretending that nothing ever happened, that the beloved never existed. Laura guessed she fell into a third category. Friends had told her to try to put the tragedy behind her – best to move on, they had said. She understood their reasoning and probably would have offered similar advice if she had been the bereaved friend rather than the widow. But Laura did not want to forget David. She found an odd sort of comfort in thinking about him, in remembering every moment she spent with him. And yes, she cried when she went through photo albums, when she thought of how much he had to live for, when she thought of the happy family that would never be. But crying was okay. There was nothing wrong with crying. Better to cry than to pretend David did not exist. Better to cry than to feel nothing.