Page 73 of The Secret

“We’re not talking about a court. Or the law. Not any longer. I’m not sure society will be best served by you going to jail. Maybe there’s another way for you to make amends.”

“I’m listening. And I’m betting this has to do with money. How much do you want?”

“AmeriChem made you a very rich woman. You could use that money to provide for the families of the victims you left behind in India. For Morgan Sanson’s wife and surviving son. For Kent Neilsen’s daughters. A guy from the Treasury Department has drawn up a document. It’ll make everything legal. You should sign it.”

“Are you insane? I’m not responsible for any of those deaths. I’m not helping those people.”

“How much time did you spend in chemistry labs, Susan? Because something’s clearly rotted your brain. Start with India. A thousand people died because that gas leaked? Why did it leak?”

“Poor maintenance.” She scuffed the dirt with her foot. “Nothing to do with me.”

“Everything to do with you. The maintenance was bad because you stole the money that was supposed to pay for it.”

“That’s a lie.”

“You stole the formula to give your new company a head start. You stole the money, too.”

“I never—”

“The Cayman Islands, Susan. The property development company. The failed bid. The bogus lawsuit. We know about it all.”

Kasluga didn’t respond.

Reacher said, “Your stealing caused the leak, and the leak is why you had to silence Morgan Sanson.”

“Sanson was a sad loser who messed with the cooling equipment in a fit of temper because he wasn’t good enough to get a raise. People died and he couldn’t live with it so he killed himself.”

“We’ve read his personnel file, Susan. Safety was his concern. Not pay.”

“Speculate all you want. I can listen to this garbage all day long and when you’re done I can tell you one thing: I’m not going to jail because some poor people died in a gas leak and I’m not going to jail for killing Morgan Sanson.”

“Maybe not,” Reacher said. “But you will go to jail for killing your husband. That’s for damn sure.”

—

Spencer Flemming struggledto his feet. He was stooped at first, as usual, then he forced himself to stand up straight. He couldn’tremember the last time he’d cared about his posture. Or that his skin hadn’t been dirty. Or that he’d felt carpet under his toes. He moved until he could catch his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t like what he saw. He looked so different, next to the people who had helped him since Reacher and Amber Smith had brought him to the hotel. His hair. His clothes. He was stuck in time, he realized. Not his fault, given that he’d been forced to live in the shadows. And not his choice. But now he could choose to change. He would have to, if he was going to take advantage of this second chance he was being offered. If it actually happened. Reacher had told him the woman most responsible for his plight would be going to jail for the rest of her life. He prayed that was true. But deep down in his gut he didn’t believe it. He couldn’t. He had a premonition. She was going to skate, and he would wind up back in the asylum.

—

“You’re framing me.”Kasluga’s voice was practically a shriek. “You’re actually trying to frame me. It’s unbelievable. You know I didn’t kill Charles. You were there. You know Veronica Sanson killed him. She would have killed me, too, if you’d showed up a moment later.”

Reacher shrugged and said, “And I used to think punctuality was a virtue.”

Kasluga turned to Smith. “Try to arrest me for this and I’ll have my lawyer put Reacher on the stand. Make him perjure himself. He’ll be the one who winds up in jail. Not me.”

Smith said, “Oh, you’re getting arrested.”

Reacher said, “Try to keep me off the stand.”

“This is insane.” Kasluga raised her eyes to the sky. “You saw what those women did.”

Smith grabbed her by the right arm. “Enough of the histrionics. Come on. Time to go.”

Kasluga instantly pulled away. Her right arm appeared from behind her back. Maybe Smith hadn’t secured the cuffs properly. Maybe Kasluga’s wrists were particularly narrow. But either way, she had somehow wriggled free. Her left arm appeared. She ducked down. Scrabbled in the dirt. Then straightened up with an object in her hand. A four-inch nail, all bent and rusty. Kasluga twisted around behind Smith. She wrapped her right arm around Smith’s head, covering her eyes. She used her left to jam the tip of the nail into Smith’s neck. She hit a spot right above Smith’s carotid. A drop of blood ran down her neck and soaked into her shirt. The nail was still sharp despite the rust. That was clear. A few more ounces of pressure and Smith would be dead.

Kasluga stepped back. She dragged Smith with her and simultaneously pulled her head, stretching her neck and arching her back. She said, “Drop the gun.”

Smith did as she was told.

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