The SnareTony sat on the sofa in my parlor, rising when I entered.
“Please, sit,” I said, and it reminded me of when Joseph Kerr sat there, in almost the exact same spot. I sat in my armchair across from him. “How may I help?”
The door shut, and Tony slumped forward, his face in his hands. “Oh, Jacqui ... when I received your letter ...” He took a deep breath, sat up. And he looked different somehow — in control of himself, yes, but he hadn’t forced his face into his usual public mask. He seemed hesitant to speak. “I’m not certain where to begin.”
I must admit I felt the same. Yet I didn’t dare ask about my letter; it seemed I caused him a great deal of grief. “How goes the search?”
He nodded, eyes on the table between us. “We should be finished with the Pot today. I lost twelve men —”
