Page 70 of With a Vengeance

If she refused, then the photos would be made public and she’d be implicated alongside her boss.

Sally made her choice.

When the job was done, the photos and negatives were delivered to her in a wrapped gift box. She burned them in the kitchen sink, swigging directly from a whiskey bottle as she watched the flames rise.

Now she tells Anna what she never told anyone. Her dirty secrets. Her hidden shame. The only thing she leaves out is the crushing guilt she’s felt ever since that day, knowing that Anna—who suffered far more than she ever could—won’t care. Nor does she mention how the reason she’s never said anything until now is because, having already ruined so many lives, Sally saw no point in destroying her own. So she took the money, knowing it would only make her more miserable.

“I’m not going to beg you for forgiveness,” Sally says, suddenly thirsting for the dregs of whiskey that remain in her flask. “I know you won’t give it to me, and I know I don’t deserve it.”

“You’re right on both counts,” Anna says.

“But I swear to you, Anna, if I’d known Tommy’s death was part of the plan, I never would have agreed to it, no matter the cost. But he was already gone when they dragged me into it. Nothing I could have done would have stopped that.”

If looks could kill, Sally knows she’d be struck down by the one Anna gives as she says, “My father also died. You could have stopped that.”

“You’re wrong there,” Sally says. “One way or another, Ken Wentworth would have made this plan happen. The only difference is that I also would have gone to prison—and I probably would have been killed the same way your father was.”

Anna glares at her. “There’s a chance that could still happen.”

Sally nods, knowing that’s likely in her future if she doesn’t get off the train before it reaches Chicago. What she doesn’t understand is why Anna insists on bothering with all of it. If their roles were reversed, she wouldn’t lure Anna onto a train under false pretenses and escort her to a group of waiting feds.

That’s because Anna would already be dead.

Sally would have made sure of it.

“Now that I’ve admitted everything,” she says, “are you still going to pretend you don’t intend to kill me?”

“I told you, I’m not a killer.”

Sally finishes painting her nails. Eyes on the glistening crimson, she says, “And what about your Irish friend?”

“Seamus? He’s not one, either.”

“Please don’t tell me you actually believe that.”

“What do you mean?” Anna says, matching her in prickliness. The room suddenly feels smaller, filling quickly with mutual distrust.

“What I mean is that he clearly killed Judd. Probably offed Edith, too.”

Anna shakes her head. “Seamus would never do that.”

“You sure?” Sally says. “Think about it. He was never searched, was he? Not completely. Once Mr. Davis saw that gun, it was all over. If your pal Seamus had poison in his pocket, none of us would know.”

She watches Anna open her mouth, about to tell her she’s wrong. That of course Seamus was searched. That all of themwatched it happen. But when her lips suddenly press together again, it’s clear Anna understands that Sally’s right.

“He still wouldn’t do it. Not without my approval. We came up with this plan together. We agreed not to hurt any of you.” Anna pauses, making sure Sal is paying attention to what comes next. “Even though it’s what all of you deserve.”

“That might have been the plan, but things change when you’re in the moment,” Sally says. “Maybe the sight of all of us together made him so mad he couldn’t help himself. Maybe he just snapped. It’s certainly possible. Under the right circumstances, a person is capable of anything. I’m living proof.”

“Seamus is better than you,” Anna says, and Sally can’t argue with that. Most people are.

“I’m not judging him. I’ve come to terms with the fact that all of us deserve whatever is coming our way.” Sally turns her gaze to the window and the snowbound landscape passing beyond it. A kind of freedom she knows she’ll never experience again. “All I’m saying is that if I were you, I’d make sure Seamus hasn’t gone rogue.”

Thirty-One

Anna moves throughCar 12 in a daze. Although she’s tried not to let Sal’s words rattle her, they’ve prompted an earthquake. She feels as unsteady as the train car rattling down the tracks, swaying from one side of the hall to the other.

Seamus isn’t the killer.

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