“People say that before deciding what silence costs.”
“He saw nothing.”
I smirk. “Then he can tell me that himself.”
The clerk swallows. “He isn’t here.”
“Where?”
“No.”
I add more money. “He has debts.”
The clerk looks up sharply. A guess, but a useful one. Men don’t disappear from gas stations because their lives have improved.
“I can pay them,” I continue. “Or someone else can collect them. Which would he prefer?”
“You don’t know who you’re asking about.”
“I know he saw Dante Vitale near this station at 21:14 on the night Seane Brennan died.”
The name “Dante” hits harder than money. The clerk goes pale. My heart becomes a clean, bright instrument inside my chest.
Finally.
“He didn’t see anything,” the clerk whispers.
“Did Roberto say that, or was he told to?” I ask.
“You need to go.”
“Where is he?”
“I can’t.”
I lean closer. “Listen to me carefully. I’m not asking because I’m curious. I’m asking because the man who frightened your cousin is more vulnerable than he was two weeks ago. Dante Vitale is absent. His father is under pressure. The Irish are not asleep. If Roberto saw him, his silence has value. I’m willing to pay for it before someone else pays to bury it.”
That’s not entirely true.
“Back room,” he finally says.
My pulse stops. “He’s here?”
“No. Phone.”
He lifts a hand beneath the counter and brings out an old mobile and a license showing Roberto’s photo. He dials. Waits. Speaks quickly in a dialect I catch only pieces of.
Woman. Brennan. Money. No police. No Vitale.
A pause. Then he hands me the phone. I take it.
Silence breathes on the other end.
“Roberto Greco?” I ask.
“Who are you?”
“Evie Brennan.”
