Page 198 of Trust No One

With luck, Ken’s and my paths wouldn’t cross again. “He’s not stupid,” I said.

“Neither are we.”

The microwave dinged. “Is that all the work-related news?”

“It is.”

“Good. I don’t want to talk about that anymore tonight.”

He took my hands in his. Kissed me on the lips. “Deal.”

I loved him, felt as safe with him as I had when I was a teenager. But I was old enough now to realize that I’d saved myself once and would do it again.

Epilogue

Ken

Wednesday, January 13, 2027, 7:00 p.m.

Ken was in a foul mood when he pushed through the front door of his efficiency apartment. He’d had a hell of a day in court. He’d gained bail and had a good defense against the criminal charges against him, but his lawyers would bleed him dry. His law firm had dropped him. Long-standing clients, too.

Still, he’d make a comeback. No one could prove anything. Pete’s death—that was self-defense. As soon as he beat the other charges, he’d stage his return. Clients going forward might not be as reputable, but the money would still be green.

The furnished apartment was small—one bedroom, a kitchenette, bathroom. Not much. But one he could afford until his accounts were unfrozen.

He uncorked yesterday’s bottle of red and loosened his tie. He filled a large glass and took a liberal sip. The woodsy, oaky flavor tasted good and eased the edge off his nerves. He took off his jacket, draped it over a chair, unfastened his cuffs, and rolled them up.

Too warm. The room was warm. He crossed to the thermostat. Had he left it on high this morning?

He ignored it, sipped more wine, and scrolled his phone. He found the number for the Italian restaurant that delivered. He sat on the used couch and called in an order for pasta with extra meat sauce and garlic bread.

As he stared out the window toward the small, enclosed patio, he imagined the stars in the endless sky over Hale House. It could still be his. If he played his cards right.

His vision blurred. He blinked it away.

The stress was getting to him. An ankle monitor meant no Caribbean vacations, but a spa day would ease the tension. Another sip.

His head spun, and his breathing hitched. Again, his vision went out of focus.

He set his glass down on the coffee table.

Suddenly, his heart jackhammered against his sternum. His phone slipped from his hand. He fell back and sucked in a breath. His windpipe had constricted to the size of a straw.

The muscles in his neck tightened. His breathing became more labored.

Fuck.

What was happening?

Panic flared. Poison. Had Maria reached from the grave and attacked him?

He lurched forward and, through a blur, searched for his phone. As his fingers skimmed it, a booted foot kicked it away.

Ken looked up. He barely registered the face when another spasm gripped his belly. Edith.

“It won’t take long,” Edith said.

“How?” His voice was garbled and almost unrecognizable.