"Is over. You're not testifying."His jaw worked like he was chewing broken glass and finding it only slightly more palatable than this conversation. "It getsworse. The DA wants to send you back to prison to finish your original sentence."
"What?"The word came out as an undignified squeak. "I did everything they asked. I spent a year pretending to care about portfolio diversification. I made small talk about market volatility. Do you have any idea how soul-crushing that is?"
"Yeah,well, someone high up wants this buried. The investigation. Your involvement. All of it. They're calling the deal void."
"They can't do that."
"They can. They did."He met her eyes. "And I'm supposed to take you straight to lockup after we make an appearance at the courthouse."
Back to prison.Her carefully constructed new life evaporating like—like something that evaporated really fast. She was too panicked for good metaphors.
"That's not happening,"Dom said.
Sheblinked. "What?"
"You'll never finishyour sentence alive. Whoever killed Schlenkman has reach. Political connections. The ability to execute someone surrounded by law enforcement and make everyone look the other way." He let the backpack slide off his shoulder. "You're going to run."
"No!My pardon—the deal?—"
"Is dead.Like you'll be if you stay." He pulled papers from the backpack. "I have a contingency plan."
"No way.You can't help me. You'll lose your job. Your pension." She twisted her hands together, the same nervous tell she'd spent years training herself out of. Some habits returned under stress. "You'll end up like me."
"Worth it."He thrust an envelope at her. "You kept your end of the deal. Someone needs to keep theirs."
She wanted to argue.Should argue. But he was already pulling out documents.
"I checkedin at the precinct at 7:00. Stopped at Murphy's Diner at 7:45. Three witnesses saw me have coffee and complain about the Knicks' terrible season—which, for the record, is a legitimate grievance. I'm on their security camera. I headed to the restroom ten minutes ago." He checked hiswatch. "I'll slip back through the bathroom window in twelve minutes. Left my phone on the table."
"Dom—"
"Far as anyone knows,I never left Murphy's." He opened the envelope for her, impatient.
Oregon driver's license.Social Security card. Birth certificate. All in the name of Cara Sweet.
She looked up at him."Cara Sweet? Seriously? That's not a name, that's a My Little Pony character."
"You'remy aunt Margaret's grandniece. Keep reading."
"Your aunt diedtwo months ago and left me—left Cara—a bakery?" She tried to shove the papers back at him. "I can't take this. It's yours. Your inheritance. Your kids?—"
"Will understand someday."He shrugged with forced casualness that didn't fool either of them. "You'll take good care of it until we figure out what's next. This is temporary. Just until things cool down and we can get your deal reinstated properly."
"I can't bake."
"Really?"He rolled his eyes in a way that suggested he'd been saving that gesture for exactly this moment. "That's your concern? You learned to spot fraudulent derivatives and analyze portfolio risk assessments. Sourdough should be easier." He pulled out keys. "There's an apartment upstairs. Small town called Haven Cove. Population around two thousand. Quiet. Safe. Boring."
"Boring,"she repeated. After a year of adrenaline and looking over her shoulder, boring sounded like a five-star vacation in Tahiti.
"You'll hate it,"he predicted. "It's perfect."
He handed over the backpack."Ten thousand cash. Maps. Burner phone. Will. Contact information for a lawyer who'll verify your story—he owes me a favor and doesn't ask questions." He eyed her outfit. "Get yourself new clothes first thing. It's the Pacific Northwest, not Times Square. Think jeans and flannel."
"I hate flannel."
"You love flannel now.You also love early mornings, small talk about weather patterns, and saying things like, ‘can I reheat that coffee?'"
"I'd rather go backto prison."
