Page 58 of The Boss
Inside, the apartment held the ghost of her life. Amug on the counter she hadn’t washed, an afghan folded over the arm of the sofa, aplant by the window bending toward the light. She crossed to the bedroom and opened the top drawer. Passport. The ring in the sock. Aphotograph of her mother tucked under a stack of receipts. She took that, too, because lies demanded receipts.
She packed like someone used to running—fast, decisive, conceding nothing to sentiment except the photograph. Tomas hovered in the doorway, face turned away, arespectful shadow. He didn’t speak unless she asked a question.
Ten minutes later, her bag zipped shut. Abin held the rest, the sweater, the jacket, the shoes she couldn’t walk away from. She took one last look at the room and experienced the tug in her sternum again, astring pulled from two directions atonce.
“Saint Bart’s after this,” she said, before he could ask. “I want a look at the ledger.” She kept her voice level, while her heart thudded. “Leif knows I want answers.”
Tomas nodded once, neither approving nor denying. “Elevator or stairs?”
“Elevator.” Her legs felt steady. She’d make them stay thatway.
They made the return in silence. In the garage, he loaded the bin with one clean motion, closed the trunk with a hand spread flat as if calming it. He opened her door. She slid in and fastened her belt. He rounded to the driver’s side, started the engine, and pulled them out into the coil of ramp and up toward daylight.
Traffic had thickened and the edge of downtown pulsed. Tomas kept to the right, then slid left to line them up for a turn that would cut toward the church district. She swallowed, tastingmetal, told herself it was just the morning air. She put her hand around the strap of her bag as if connecting herself to theseat.
Her phone buzzed. Leif’s name on the screen. She stared at it, then thumbed it silent. Not yet. She needed five minutes of quiet to think without his voice shaping her thoughts. She could picture exactly what he’d say and exactly how her chest would react when he said it—iron bands, heat and hunger. She shoved the phone back in herbag.
They passed the bakery again. The dog with the bandanna had traded owner for ice water. Acourier dodged a bus and swore. Sun bit the windshield. The church spires showed ahead, slate and stone against theblue.
“Curb?” Tomas asked, tone the same as when he’d asked about the garage.
“Side door,” she said. “The sacristy entrance is usually unlocked in the morning.”
He eased them along the curb until the church steps filled the passenger window. Pigeons startled, lifting in a ragged flutter. Agroundskeeper dragged a hose across a patch of lawn. Bells somewhere tested a singlenote.
“All right,” Tomas said, shifting into park. “I’ll walk you in—”
He turned in the same motion he used to reach for the door. The movement was efficient, unshowy, part of a practiced sequence. The matte-black pistol appeared in his hand as if it had been waiting in the space between breaths.
“Hands where I can see them, Miss De Angelis,” he said, voice quiet, almost gentle. “We’re not going inside.”
Chapter 17
ALARIC STUDIEDthe blood on the concrete and decided it told a cleaner story than the man makingit.
Rocco wheezed on the chair, wrists taped to the arms, face lumped and purple in uneven patches. One eye had swollen shut. The other watched Alaric the way a rabbit watches a shadow. Magnus stood off to the side, hands loose, breathing steady. He could hit for hours without needing water or rest. He never rushed the last ten percent. That was the difference between rage and skill. Magnus had both and used the second to feed the first.
“Again,” Alaric said.
Magnus dragged the knuckles in once, short and brutal. Rocco’s head snapped and sagged. The sound he made was small and wet. The room smelled like bleach that had givenup.
“You paid Tomas,” Alaric said. “Say it into the phone.”
Rocco coughed and swallowed. “I already told you.”
“You told my brother,” Alaric said. “Now you’ll tell Leif.”
He took out his phone and waited. The call rang. No answer. He tried again. Still nothing. He watched the screen a longsecond, then glanced at his palm. The skin went tight. The small white arc at the base of the thumb had sharpened in the last hour. Lightning. It didn’t burn. It didn’t glow. It simply existed, as blunt and undeniable as the truth he was about to deliver.
He closed his fist and called again.
The third ring cut short. Leif took it. His voice came clipped and wrong, like he’d been running without air. “Talk.”
“We have your answer,” Alaric said. “It wasn’t Rocco.”
The silence on the line thinned and then held. Alaric didn’t fillit.
“Who,” Leif said.
