“I’ve heard that before.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Roy left, right after Danny got sick. That’s one of the things he told me. He loved Danny so much, he couldn’t stay around and watch him die. You know what that meant? That meant he was a fucking coward. And Danny’s still here. He’s not dying, and he’s going to get better, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to make that happen. Roy couldn’t handle Danny? That was his excuse. He couldn’t handle anything.”

He looked at his beer.

“You were his friend, Billy. You knew him. You know what I’m talking about.”

He nodded without looking up.

“Go ahead and drink that if you want,” she said. “I don’t care.”

“You’ve got a right to be mad, I understand that.”

“Do you?”

“And you’re right, some of the choices I made weren’t the best.”

“I’m not your therapist, Billy.”

“I know. But sometimes I think you were the only real chance I had to be happy, to have a normal life. And I let it slip away.”

“You’ve had lots of opportunities to be happy,” she said, “and they’ve got nothing to do with me. That’s your own responsibility. You can’t put it on other people.”

“You’re right. But lately things have gotten… complicated. Sometimes it seems like everything’s so fucked I’ll never get out from under.”

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head. She sensed him pulling back. Give him space, let him talk.

She sat back, lifted the mug, and sipped beer. It was thin, harsh. She frowned, put it down. Johnny Paycheck on the jukebox now, “Take This Job and Shove It.”

“They’re telling me I’m clear,” he said. “That it was all in policy.”

“That’s right.”

“They look at me differently now, though. You do, too.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Elwood came out to the house the other day.” He looked at her. “To talk to Lee-Anne, when I wasn’t there. She had nothing to tell him, but still… I mean, if it’s open and shut, it’s open and shut, right?”

“Maybe they want to make sure all the Ts are crossed. For your sake.”

“Or maybe it’s just that nigger woman stirring up trouble.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that word before.”

“Dammit, Sara, I just-”

“I have to go, Billy. Thanks for the beer.” She started to get up.

“I know you still care about me, Sara.” He looked at her. “Everything we’ve had between us. The other night, too. I know you get angry with me sometimes, but you’re still on my side, even though things didn’t work out. I know that. I can feel it.”

She squeezed out of the booth. “I have to go home. You should, too.”

“I think I’m going to stay here a little bit. Drink some of this beer. Enjoy the change of scenery. At least out here I don’t have to worry about anyone spying on me, do I?”

“Good night, Billy.”

“Good night, Sara. I don’t blame you. I really don’t.”

She turned her back on him, headed toward the door.

Midnight, the house dark except for the kitchen light. She sat in the living room in sweats and sneakers, running it all through her head. The conversation with Billy. The missing Taurus. The gray Toyota that had followed her. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just you.

Headlights came through the blinds, crawled across the walls, and were gone. She went to the window, pushed the blinds aside, looked out. It had rained earlier, and now there was mist in the air, a hazy halo around the streetlamps. She saw taillights at the end of the street, turning right and then disappearing.

She went down the hall, checked on Danny. He lay still under the covers. She stood in the doorway for a moment, until she could hear his soft snores.

Another set of headlights swept across the living room, this time from the opposite direction. They seemed to slow for a moment, hang motionless on one wall, and then move on. By the time she got to the window, they were gone.

She got her hooded sweatshirt from the hall closet, pulled it on. The only sound in the house was the ticking of the kitchen clock. In the bedroom, she took the Glock from the lockbox and slipped it into the front pocket of the hoodie, the weight of it hanging heavy.

She went out the back door, down the two short steps, and into the sideyard. The air was thick and damp. She started toward the front of the house, stopped to listen. Nothing except the sound of a TV from the upper window of the house next door.

Headlights again, to her right, slower this time. They pulled up a block away on the opposite side of the street, then winked out. She could hear the low thrum of an idling engine.

She slipped the Glock out, staying close to the wall. At the corner of the house, she stopped. Through the mist she could see only a dim bulk across the street, yards from the nearest streetlight. She wished she’d brought her shield. She’d walk over, gun up, badge whoever it was, be done with it.

Moisture dripped from the gutter above her. She waited, watching. She thought of Danny inside.

Fuck it. Badge or no.

She left the cover of the house and started down the lawn, the Glock in a two-handed grip, pointed at the ground. She heard the crunching of gears, the sound of wet tires.

“Police! Don’t move!” she yelled, the Glock coming up even before she reached the sidewalk. “Turn that vehicle off.”

It pulled hard away from the curb before she reached the street, lights still off, tires squealing. She saw only a blur in the mist as it went past. It reached the end of the street, turned right at the stop sign without slowing. As it did, it passed through the lightwash of a streetlamp. Black pickup, mud flaps. Billy’s truck.

She lowered the Glock and walked back to the house through the mist.

EIGHTEEN

When the man with the dreadlocks came into the garage, Morgan put the muzzle of the Beretta to the back of his head.

“One in the chamber,” he said. “You know what that means, right?”

The man froze. Morgan pushed him toward the Navigator.

“Hands on the hood.”

He did as he was told. He was bare chested in jeans, his dreads loose, a blue bandana tied around his neck. He smelled of reefer.

Morgan used his left hand to pat the man’s pockets, took out a wallet. He put it in the windbreaker.

“Anyone else in the house?” Morgan said.

He shook his head.

“Answer me.”

“No, no one.” A faint accent.

“If there is,” Morgan said, “I’ll shoot you first.” He took the gun away. “Turn around. Go back in.”

The man took his hands off the hood, turned to look at Morgan, the gun. His face was slack with fear. “I don’t know what you want, brah, but there’s nothing here.”

“Go on,” Morgan said.

He went up the steps into an empty kitchen. Morgan followed, pulled the connecting door shut. On the counter were a cell phone and a big automatic, a Desert Eagle.44. The back door was locked and chained. Morgan opened another door, saw steps that led into a basement, listened, heard nothing. The man watched him.

“Living room,” Morgan said.

They went in. The sliding glass door was closed, the vertical blinds drawn. A tall straight-backed chair was against one wall.

“What is this place?” Morgan said.

“How you mean?”

“Who lives here?”

“No one yet. A friend of mine, he sells these places. He’s letting me stay here.”

“Face the couch.”

When he did, Morgan hit him hard on the side of the head with the Beretta. He cried out, fell to his knees. The floor lamp threw his shadow large on the wall.

“Stay there,” Morgan said and backed away. He put the Beretta in his belt, took out the wallet. Inside was a hundred dollars in cash, credit cards in three different names. A Florida driver’s license with a picture, in the name of Jean-Pierre Delva, a Riviera Beach address. He tossed the wallet on the couch.