Then there’s nothing.
I stand stock-still until I’m sure they’re gone. Then I lock the bolt again.
I make it to the vanity before my legs decide they’re done with this nonsense and I have to grab the edge of the countertop with both hands to keep myself upright. The marble is cold under my palms. Veined gold in cream. Some interior designer made a lot of money picking this slab.
I look up. The mirror is a clean, brutal piece of glass framed in brass, shined to a perfect polish, but the man in it doesn’t look like me.
All the features are the same as they always have been. Pale skin. Black stubble. Blue eyes. But there’s a sheen of sweat at my hairline and my tie is sitting half a degree off-center.
My hand is on my chest. Not on the gun, but on the inside breast pocket of my jacket. Through the wool, I can feel the square of paper she pressed into me. Stiff. Folded along old creases.
It’s yours.
I’ve heard a lot of things in this lifetime. Confessions. Threats. The wet hitch of a man’s last breath when his trachea has been bent out of shape. None of them ever rearranged my insides like those two words.
It’s yours.
I drag a hand down my face and breathe out through my teeth. My rib aches and stings all at once. But I can’t spare my own pain any mind. I need to focus on the plan.
The plan. Fucking hell,the plan.
Christ. I need to pull myself together.
I straighten my tie, then run a finger along the line of my jaw to wipe away the spot where Cass’s lipstick smudged. I shake out my cuffs, then touch my breast pocket once more.
I check the hang of the gun under the wool. It’s right where it’s supposed to be, but it won’t be coming out to play tonight.
Things have changed.
In the ballroom, the dessert course is being staged. White-gloved waiters glide between the tables with little plated towers of chocolate and gold leaf. The lighting has dropped a notch. Theroom has the heady stench of espresso and roses going slightly past their prime.
Raymond is back in his chair, slumped sideways and gesticulating with his bourbon at Zimmerman, who looks like he’s been embalmed and propped up. Cass is in her seat, once again nodding at Bill’s wife’s never-ending stories. Her smile is wide, bland, pretty, unobjectionable. Just like I told her to do.
I sweep up to the table from Raymond’s blind side, pull my phone from my inside pocket, and let my face assume a concerned expression.
“Ray.” I stoop low and put a hand on the back of his chair. “I’m sorry. I have to step out.”
“What?” He burps. “No. We haven’t had dessert.”
“I know.” I show him the dark face of the phone like it’s evidence. “Greg Gordon’s lawyer just called. He wants to amend something in the paperwork. They’re throwing a tantrum about the indemnity language and threatening to walk before Monday morning. I need to put out the fire tonight or it’s gonna be a mess.”
“Gordon’s a fucking pussy,” Raymond declares to the table at a hideous volume. “Tell him to grow a pair.”
I let a tight, deferential smile pull at my mouth. “It’s a thirty-minute fix on the phone if I do it now. Better for all of us if I just handle it tonight.”
Raymond squints up at me. His eyes are pink at the corners and the white tufts of his mustache are flecked with crumbs. He’s an inch from belligerent. But he knows as well as I do that some business must be done under cover of darkness.
“Fuckin’ hell.” He waves the bourbon glass. A little of it sloshes out onto the cloth. “Fine. Go.”
“Raincheck on dessert.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He’s already pivoted back to Zimmerman. “Where was I? Oh, right, so I was playing eighteen with the mayor the other day…”
I disperse goodbye nods around the table as I stand and button my jacket. I save Cass for last.
“Mrs. Snyder.” I incline my head. “Apologies for the abrupt exit.”
She looks up.
