Theaella

10

From what Vincent had told him, it had been about two and a half years since he’d rented this place after Violet, and yet it seemed he’d never really moved in.

Maybe he didn’t want to.

Maybe moving in meant acknowledging that she was gone.

While Matthew stood watch at the big front window, Vincent scurried around his bedroom grabbing personal items—clothes, toothbrush, and whatever else reasonable people considered to be necessities.

The second-floor corridor was empty, the street quiet. Matthew cast another glance across the sparse apartment.

The habitat of a man who had figured out how to exist but not really live.

Matthew wondered if his own place was merely a dressed-up version of the same. He had the thumb drive out, tapping it against his palm. He was eager to get to a secure location, plug it into his laptop, and see what the hell had started this ball rolling.

Vincent finally emerged from the bedroom, a bag slung over his shoulder. “Now what?”

“Now we tuck you away somewhere safe.”

“Like where?”

Matthew considered. From what he’d heard of the Terror and seen of the shooter at Grant’s office, he figured these were street-level guys. Dangerous men, sure, but he doubted they had access to classified databases. Even so, he was reluctant to put Vincent on an airplane or check him in to a hotel.

Matthew kept a number of safe houses scattered around Los Angeles, equipped with load-out gear and alternate vehicles. The locations were, like Matthew’s financial holdings, fully off the books, buried beneath an avalanche of shell corps and offshore holding companies. Because all transactions around the safe houses had to be double-blind, they took a hefty investment of resources to acquire and maintain.

The instant a client entered a safe house, it was blown forever. He’d use one if absolutely necessary but preferred not to.

“We have a few options,” Matthew said. “Number one: I give you a bundle of cash and a burner phone, you get in the Chevy Malibu and drive away. Then you keep on driving. You find a hotel five states away, pay cash for everything, and I contact you when it’s over.”

Vincent said, “No.”

“Why no?”

“Because,” Vincent said, “I gave my word.” He looked like he needed to sleep for a month. “I’m not just gonna run away. I may not be much help, but I have to be around in case you need me. Until it’s … you know, settled. And everyone else is safe.”

Matthew gestured at the tufts of stuffing stripped from the gutted couch. “You didn’t give your word for this.”

“I told Grant I’d take care of it for him. That I’d keep it away from his wife and kids. That I’d see it through for him. So I have to do that.” Vincent swayed a bit on his feet and then said again, “I gave my word.”

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Matthew said. “Not anymore.”

Vincent gave a hoarse laugh edged with self-loathing. His gaze was loose, unfocused.

“So what?” Matthew said. “If you do this thing for Grant, it’ll prove you’re a good person?”

“No,” Vincent said. “It’ll prove I’m worth something.” His eyes moistened, and he looked quickly away. “I thought, just one time, it might be nice not to let anyone down, that’s all. It sounds so f*****g juvenile, but…”

“What?” Matthew said.

“I just … I could use a win, you know?”

His voice had grown husky, and for a moment Matthew thought he might actually break down under the strain of it all. But then he seemed to shake off the thoughts and reset himself. “The other options,” he said. “What are they?”

Matthew gave a nod, glad to move on. “You have anywhere you can go? Anywhere safe?”

“Not really,” Vincent said. “I mean, my dad’s still around, but my family’s not really … Like I said, we’re not really close.”

“Family’s not an option,” Matthew said. “We can’t put them at risk.”

“Not that we have to worry about that,” Vincent said. “Them sticking out their neck for me, I mean.”

Matthew said, “Okay.”

Vincent pressed his palm to his forehead. “s**t,” he said. “There is one— No, never mind. s**t. Okay. There might be one option but it’s…”

“It’s what?”

“Hard.”

Matthew stepped on a cushion on the floor, the knife s***h gaping. “Harder than this?”

Vincent swallowed. The last bit of color had drained from his face.

“Yes,” he said.

The Badness of My Heart

The cottage in the gently rolling hills of South Pasadena was tucked behind an ivy-covered brick wall. The streets were wide here, the sunshine plentiful even in the late afternoon, even in November. Polished fenders, moist green lawns, spit-shined windows—it all had a big-ticket gleam.

Matthew had taken every precaution approaching the residence, but it was evident that there was nothing on this patch of neighborhood but an excess of money. Beside him Vincent shuffled from foot to foot.

The doorbell gave a resonant chime that belied an interior far deeper than what the cutesy stone-and-stucco fa?ade implied. Matthew felt the key chain—and the thumb drive it hid—pressing against his thigh through the tactical-discreet pocket of his cargo pants, right beneath one of his backup magazines.

Footsteps sounded.

Vincent said, “Maybe I should just wait in the—”

Violet opened the door.

She was as striking as Vincent had described. Glossy black hair lay pronounced against her pale skin, a single forties wave peekabooing one eye. Bloody red lipstick. Sharp, intelligent irises the color of espresso.

She wore leggings and a gauzy loose sweater over a fitted midnight-blue shirt. Instinctively she tugged at her cuffs, covering her wrists with her sleeves, but not before Matthew saw the telltale marks. Thin raised scars, white as milk, like the branches of a dead tree.