Page 57 of Ten

“Offense taken,” Ilya replied.

“Eric, I made my choice.”

He exhaled in frustration. “Fine. I tried.”

“And I appreciate it.” Wanting to steer him away from a continuing disagreement, I asked, “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“I ate on the drive.” He glanced at the farmhouse table. “Can we sit and talk?”

“Sure.” I let him get settled in while I made a PB&J with the freshly baked bread and locally made jam that was waiting in the kitchen. “Do you want one?”

Ilya shook his head. “I’m allergic to peanut butter.”

“Oh.” I looked at my sandwich as if it were a loaded weapon. “Let me get rid of this.”

“You’re fine.” Ilya waved his hand. “I’m used to being careful in other people’s spaces. Just try not to kiss me, and we’ll be okay.”

“If that happens, finding an Epipen will be the least of your worries.” I was only halfway joking. Ten would blow a gasket if I was swapping peanut particles with anyone but him.

“Who needs an Epipen?” Eric returned to the kitchen.

“Me.” Ilya held his gaze as if daring him to say something else. “Peanuts.”

“No shit?” Eric sat across from me. “A friend of mine with the Marshals knows we’re close friends, Nisha.”

“Okay.”

“He gave me a heads-up about some leads they’re following.”

“And?”

“They suspect two guards were in on the escape. One of them went on a trip to the Florida Keys. Chartered a boat. Hasn’t been seen since and is probably in Cuba.”

“Oh, well, that’s nice,” I grumbled. “And the other?”

Eric hesitated. “He was found dead at a motel in Clute. Throat slit.”

“Like that Dancing Bear guy,” I murmured.

“Exactly.”

“Sounds like someone is tying up loose ends,” Ilya remarked, now holding Wilford in his arms.

I gawked at the sight of my cat cuddling with Ilya and doubled down on my earlier remark. “Traitor.”

Ilya smiled and stroked Wilford’s fur as he murmured to him in Russian.

Ignoring Wilford choosing Ilya as his new best friend, I turned back to Eric and asked, “But why would anyone help Kiki?”

“Money,” Eric said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“From where? He was flat broke when we were together, and I’d be surprised if he had even two nickels in his commissary account.”

“Both of the guards had come into money over the last few months. Marshals and Rangers interviewed family, friends, coworkers, and neighbors. A boat, vacations, and new vehicles. Their credit reports showed discharged debts. The one who retired? His granddaughter had her face repaired by a high-end plastic surgeon in Dallas. She was mauled by a dog as a little kid. She’s walked around with scars ever since.”

“Until Grandpa suddenly had money to burn.” I peeled the thick crust away from my sandwich and nibbled on it. “So who paid all this money to orchestrate his escape? The cartel? A friend?” I glanced at Ilya. “Adrian? Maybe he’s back from wherever he ran off to after Tony was killed?”

Eric's face registered surprise. “Adrian? Umansky?”

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