Page 120 of Four Seconds to Lose

I walked out of Sin City twelve hours ago. I’ve got to give Mendez credit. He doesn’t waste a second. The guy was probably on the phone with one of his “people” as soon as the door clicked shut behind me.

“Are you sure?”

Dan nods slowly. “I just left the hotel. Saw the body myself.”

A prickle of guilt stirs inside me. “And no one else was hurt?”

Still watching me closely, he says, “No. Looks like a professional hit.”

Passing by Dan, I make my way to my living room to look out over the bay in a dreamlike state.

Sam is actually... dead.

And I helped kill him.

“I’m... Did... ” Dan begins to ask and then stops abruptly. “You know what? I’d ask you if you knew he was in town, but I don’t think I even want to know that much.”

“I was at Penny’s until five a.m. and then at the gym until eight. You can check surveillance if you don’t believe me. I’m not a professional hit man,” I mutter dryly, adding, “or a murderer.”

“I know you’re not, Cain. And it’s definitely a cartel hit, by the signature.” We stand side by side in silence as we watch a sailboat pass by. It probably wouldn’t take much for Dan to find out that I had been to Sin City last night. He could probably also demand to see my surveillance footage to confirm that Sam was at Penny’s last night. If he truly wanted to know.

“With Sam gone, Charlie’s free to come home, isn’t she?” Dan finally asks. I wonder where he’s going with this.

“If she knew that he was dead. If she knew she wasn’t going to be arrested for anything, then... yeah, I supposed she could.” I sigh. Home. Would she consider Miami home? Would she want to come back? “I don’t know how to reach her, though. Do you think this will make the news?”

His hand scratches his chin. “Local news for sure. Maybe New York. I’ll see what I can do. If she’s in some small town in Alaska, she’s not likely going to hear about this.” He smiles. “I know a guy who knows a guy... who knows a guy.”

chapter forty-six

¦¦¦

CHARLIE

“See? Doesn’t it look like he’s wearing mascara?”

Berta has an obsession with a dark-haired reporter on our local news station.

“He probably is,” I confirm as I count the money in my small waitress apron. On average, I’ll make fifty bucks a night in tips. Seventy, on a really good night, Berta has promised. If she knew what I used to do, and how much money I used to make in one night, she’d have a coronary.

“And lipstick, too?” Her eyes squint as she studies the screen. “Yesterday, they were more peachy. Now they’re red. What kind of man wears red lipstick?”

“The kind who deals with harsh lighting and high definition, I suppose.” I quickly begin filling the salt and pepper shakers. The dinner rush is over, but it’s homecoming weekend. Molly and Teena, the day-shift waitresses, are pulling doubles tonight in anticipation of a late rush.

“Doug’s asking for you,” Teena whispers with a playful wink as she floats by, though it’s loud and raspy enough that half the diner probably heard her. Fortunately, the twenty-six-year-old mechanic is sitting in the far corner. Berta’s fantasy of marrying me off to her nephew was short-lived. She forced me to leave work for an hour last night to watch the parade with Doug.

His smile reminds me of Ben—broad and dimpled. But he’s not an obnoxious ass like Ben. He also kind of looks like him, with his blond hair and strong jaw. And he’s polite. He was a perfect gentleman last night, walking me back to Becker’s before it closed, offering nothing more than a “good night” head dip as he strolled away.

I wonder when this empty void inside my chest will shrink. It’s been a month, and some days I think it’s growing bigger. Isn’t time supposed to heal all wounds? Shouldn’t four weeks have given me some relief from the relentless pain and self-doubt?

I hold on tightly to the belief that I did the right thing. Still, the same regretful longing slams into me the second I open my eyes from a fitful sleep, coiling itself through my thoughts to linger throughout the day. It haunts me through the night, leaving dark circles beneath my eyes that concealer can’t quite cover. It curbs my appetite, my body shedding weight it doesn’t have to spare.

But the dreams... they are the worst. All variations of horror leading to the same outcome.

Cain, disgusted with me.

Cain, hurt by me.

Cain insistent on helping me, because of the man he is.

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