But she couldn’t just stay here and wait for Juicehead to come back.

She had gone only about ten yards toward the road when the front door of the farmhouse opened. The computer guy with the knit cap, tinted glasses, and wild shirt stepped onto the porch. Dana hopped to the left and dove headfirst into the barn. She scrambled on all fours toward the metal tool table. The rope—the one Juicehead had planned to tie her with—was still on the floor.

She waited to see if the computer guy came into the barn. He didn’t. Time passed. She had to risk it. This “hiding” spot was too exposed. She slowly crawled out from under the table. Tools were hung on the wall in front of her. There were several saws, a wooden mallet, a sander.

And an axe.

Dana tried to stand up. Whoa, the head rush again. She started to black out, forcing her to take a knee.

Slow down. Steady.

Running down that road wasn’t feeling like much of an option anymore.

Deep breaths.

She had to move. Juicehead and his friends would be coming back soon. Dana struggled to her feet and reached for the axe. She pulled it off the wall. It was heavier than she thought, almost knocking her back to the floor. She regained her balance and gripped the axe with two hands.

It felt good.

So now what?

She took a peek out the barn door. The computer guy was smoking a cigarette near the drive.

Running was definitely out.

So what was option two again? Hiding, right?

She took a look behind her. There was no decent place in the barn to hide. Her best bet, she realized, was to get to the farmhouse. She looked toward the back. The kitchen, she knew, was there.

Kitchen. Food.

Just the thought of that—of getting food in her belly—made her dizzy.

But more than that, there was a computer in the farmhouse. A phone too.

A way to get help.

The guy with the knit hat still had his back to her. There wouldn’t be a better chance. Keeping one eye on him, Dana crept toward the kitchen door of the farmhouse. She was completely exposed now, tiptoeing at a spot about halfway between the barn and the back of the house, when the guy with the knit hat dropped the butt of his cigarette onto the ground, stomped on it, and turned toward her.

Dana lowered her head and sprinted with all she had to the back of the house.

 • • •

Titus waited in the car near the corner of Columbus Avenue. He didn’t like being back in the city, even though the ritzy Upper West Side had about as much to do with his old life as a vagrant has to do with a hedge fund manager. It was almost as if something were drawing him back to the life Titus had neatly put behind him.

He didn’t want to be here.

Clem Sison crossed the street and slid back into the driver’s seat. “Donovan’s not home.”

Clem had gone into Kat Donovan’s building with a “package” that needed her signature. The doorman had informed him that she wasn’t home right now. Clem thanked him and said that he’d return.

Titus didn’t like staying away from the farm any longer than necessary. He considered heading back and leaving Clem behind to make the grab, but Clem wouldn’t be able to handle this alone. He was muscle, good with a gun and taking orders and not much else.

So what now?

Titus plucked at his lip and considered his options. His eyes were still locked on the front of Kat Donovan’s building, when he saw something that stunned him.

Brandon Phelps was walking through the door.

What the . . . ?

But hold on, maybe this explained everything. Had Brandon Phelps initiated all this? Was the problem here Kat Donovan or Brandon Phelps—or both? Brandon Phelps, Titus knew, had been something of an issue from the start. The mama’s boy had sent dozens of homesick e-mails and texts. Now all of a sudden, here he is with Kat Donovan, an NYPD cop. Titus ran the scenarios through his head.

Had Kat Donovan been onto Titus earlier than he’d suspected?

Could that be? Could Kat have been pretending to be Ron Kochman’s ex to draw him out in some way? Had Brandon gone to Kat—or had Kat gone to Brandon?

Did it even matter?

Titus’s mobile phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw that it was Reynaldo.

“Hello?”

“We have a problem,” Reynaldo said.

Titus’s jaw clenched. “What is it?”

“Number Six is on the run.”

Chapter 39

Two crocheted afghan blankets covered the couch. Kat sat on the small space between them. Anthony Parker tossed his yellow hard hat onto a spare chair. He took off one work glove, then the other. He carefully put them on the coffee table, as though this was a task of great importance. Kat let her eyes wander around the apartment. The lighting was poor, but maybe that had something to do with the fact that Anthony Parker had switched on only one dim lamp. The furniture was old and made of wood. There was a console TV on top of a bureau. The wallpaper was busy blue chinoiserie with egrets and trees and water scenes.

“This was my mother’s place,” he said by way of explanation.

Kat nodded.

“She died last year.”

“I’m sorry,” Kat said, because that was what you said under such circumstances and she couldn’t think of anything else right now.

Her entire body felt numb.

Anthony “Sugar” Parker sat across from her. He was, she guessed, in his late fifties or early sixties. When he met her eyes, it was almost too much. Kat had to angle her body away, just a little, just enough so that they weren’t so face-to-face. Anthony Parker—Sugar?—looked so damned normal. His height and build would be listed on a police blotter as average. He had a nice face, but nothing special or even feminine.

“You can imagine my shock at seeing you,” Parker said.

“Yeah, well, I think I may have you beat in that area.”

“Fair enough. So you didn’t know I was a man?”

Kat shook her head. “I’d guess you’d call this my personal Crying Game moment.”

He smiled. “You look like your father.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“You also sound like him. He always used humor to deflect.” Parker smiled. “He made me laugh.”

“My father did?”

“Yes.”

“You and my father,” she said, with a shake of her head.

“Yes.”

“I’m having trouble believing it.”

“I understand.”

“So are you telling me my father was gay?”

“I’m not defining him.”

“But you two were . . . ?” Kat made her hands go back and forth in a near clap.

“We were together, yes.”

Kat closed her eyes and tried not to make a face.

“It’s been nearly twenty years,” Parker said. “Why are you here now?”

“I just found out about you two.”

“How?”

She shook it off. “It’s not important.”

“Don’t be angry with him. He loved you. He loved all of you.”

“Including you,” Kat half snapped. “The man was just so full of love.”

“I know that you’re in shock. Would it be better if I were a woman?”

Kat said nothing.

“You have to understand what it was like for him,” Parker said.

“Could you just answer my question?” Kat said. “Was he gay or not?”

“Does it matter?” Parker shifted in his seat. “Would you think less of him if he was?”

She wasn’t sure what to say. She had so many questions, and yet maybe all of this was indeed beside the point. “He lived a lie,” she said.

“Yes.” Parker tilted his head to the side. “Think about how horrible that is, Kat. He loved you. He loved your brothers. He even loved your mother. But you know the world he grew up in. He fought what he knew for a long, long time until it consumed him. It doesn’t change who he was. It doesn’t make him any less manly or any less a cop or any less of the things you think he is. What else could he do?”