“But they are.”

“If they weren’t,” he said insistently.

“Are you planning on winning the lottery?”

Again, he felt the sting of her sarcasm, but he let it pass. He’d said enough for one night. He’d given her food for thought. He’d known that broaching this subject would automatically make him out to be the bad guy, but one of them had to be, and it wasn’t going to be Janice.

She’d been valedictorian of her high school class, an honor graduate from Vanderbilt, a rising star in an investments firm. Then fate cruelly interrupted not only her promising career path but the sum total of her life.

She’d had to sacrifice everything for Lanny, which made admitting defeat untenable to her. In her mind, placing Lanny in a facility was full-scale surrender, as good as an admission that—yet again—she had been denied the opportunity to finish something she’d started.

He sighed. “I’d better get to bed and sleep while I can. I won’t be surprised if I get a call in the middle of the night.”

“What for?”

“The agents I left in Tambour know to call me with any developments.” He paused at the door. “You look done in, too. Coming?”

“Not yet. I’m tired but not sleepy. I think I’ll stay up for a while.”

“Playing your word game with your cell phone friend in Japan?”

“Singapore.”

He smiled. Playing the games were her one form of recreation, and it had become almost an addiction. “I hope you win.”

“I’m leading by forty-three points, but I’ve got a j that’s challenging me.”

“You’ll come up with a word for it,” he said with confidence. “But don’t stay up too late.”

Two hours later, Tom was still alone in their bed. He got up and padded barefoot down the hall. After looking in on Lanny, he found Janice in the den, staring raptly into the screen of her cell phone, totally engrossed in a pastime that apparently was much more enjoyable to her than sleeping with him.

Without her ever knowing that he’d been watching her, he turned away and retraced his steps to their bedroom.

Chapter 12

Coburn gradually withdrew his hands from Honor’s shoulders. He got off her and retrieved the pistol, tucking it back into his waistband. She continued to lie there staring up at him.

“That was a damn stupid thing to do,” he said. “If you’d accidentally pulled the trigger, one of us could be dead, and if it turned out to be you, I’d be stuck with your kid.”

It was a harsh thing to say, which is why he’d said it. Her daughter was the button to push when he wanted something from her, and right now he wanted her to stop gaping like a beached perch.

He knew she heard him, because she blinked. But she remained perfectly still, and for one panicked moment he wondered if she’d been seriously injured during their struggle.

He wondered why he cared.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded.

Relieved of that worry, he turned away and looked at the mess he’d made of her house. When he’d arrived this morning, everything had been in its place. Lived in, but tidy and neat. Homey. Smelling of fresh cake.

Now the place was in shambles, and he had nothing to show for his ransacking.

Dead end.

Which more or less summarized the life and times of Lee Coburn, who would leave the world with seven brutal murders as his only legacy. Seven victims who hadn’t been given a chance, who’d died before they knew what had hit them.

Swearing beneath his breath, he rubbed his temples. He was tired. No, more than tired. Weary. Weary of loading and unloading those goddamn trucks. Weary of the sad, one-room apartment that he’d been living in for the past thirteen months. Weary of life in general, and of his life in particular. As he’d told Gillette’s widow, if he died, which he probably would soon, he’d be dead, and none of it would matter.

But hell if it didn’t matter now. As he lowered his hands from his forehead, he realized he wasn’t quite ready to let the devil take him.

“Get up.”

She stirred, rolled to her side, and pushed herself into a sitting position. He reached down. She studied his hand for several seconds, then clasped it and let him pull her up.

“What did you mean?”

Her voice was breathless and shaky, but he knew what she was referring to. Instead of addressing the question, he propelled her toward the hallway and then into her bedroom, where he released her hand. Going to the bed, he whipped back the comforter, which had been spotless, but was now stained and grimy because of him.

“I gotta lie down, which means you gotta lie down.”

She stood where she was, looking at him as though she didn’t understand the language.

“Lie down,” he repeated.

She moved to the bed, but stood on the opposite side of it, staring across at him like he was an exotic animal she’d never seen before. She wasn’t acting right. All day long, he’d been studying her reactions to things he said and did, so that he would know what her weaknesses were and what fears he could tap into in order to manipulate her.

He’d seen her terrified, supplicant, desperate, and even pissed off. But this was a new expression, and he didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe she’d banged her head on the floor when she was fighting for control of the pistol.

“What you said about Eddie…” She paused to swallow. “What did you mean?”

“What did I say? I don’t remember.”

“You said that the thing you’re after had got him killed.”

“I never said that.”

“That’s exactly what you said.”

“You must’ve heard me wrong.”

“I didn’t hear you wrong!”

Well, good. She was acting normal again, not like a zombie had taken over her body. Her compact, shapely body that had felt real good against his.

“Eddie’s death was an accident,” she declared.

“If you say so.” He turned away and started rifling through the heap of clothes he’d removed from her bureau drawers earlier as he’d searched them.

He sensed her approach only a heartbeat before she grabbed him by the arm and brought him around to face her. He allowed it. She wasn’t going to stop with this until she got an explanation. Not unless he gagged her, and he really didn’t want to do that unless she forced him to.

“What did you come here to find?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me, damn you!

“I don’t know!”

He pulled his arm free and bent down to pick up a pair of stockings. Sheer, black stockings. When he turned back to her, she searched his eyes.

“You honestly don’t know?” she asked.

“What part of ‘I don’t know’ don’t you understand?”

He reached for her hand and began wrapping the stocking around her wrist. She didn’t resist. In fact, she seemed oblivious to what he was doing.

“If there’s anything about Eddie or how he died that you can tell me… Please,” she said. “Surely you can understand why I want to know.”

“Actually I don’t. He’ll stay dead. So what difference does it make?”

“It makes a huge difference. If his death wasn’t an accident, as you imply, I’d like to know why he died and who was responsible.” She placed her hand over his. He stopped winding the stocking around her wrist. “Please.”

Her eyes were various shades of green that were constantly changing. He’d noticed that the first thing, when they’d been out in the yard and he’d thrust the barrel of the pistol into her belly. Then her eyes had gone wide with fear. He’d seen them spark with anger. Now they glistened with unshed tears. And, always, those shifting hues.