Page 54 of Wells

"You said you didn't speak to Vin?"

"No."

"You're sure."

"I'm sure. We didn't talk to either of them, and there was no one else."

"And you're not the one who called Vin to come there?"

"Fuck no. I don't have his number. Why would I call him there? We were useful idiots, not hitmen. I can't speak for Ronnie, but he didn't tell me anything and I didn't know nothing."

I let the silence stretch. Dane shifts again, uncomfortable, waiting for me to tell him whether this is enough or whether he's about to find out what I meant when I said I could take him apart.

"You said you never saw my father, Robert Stone, that night?"

Dane shakes his head fast.

"No. Never saw him at all. Looking back, I figured he was already inside before we got there. But I didn't see him go in, so I can't swear to it."

Dane watches me, waiting to see what I'll do next.

"Get out."

He blinks.

"What?"

"I'm done with you. If you're smart, you'll disappear. Someone didn't want Ronnie to talk, and I can imagine that same someone is coming for you next."

Dane scrambles for the door handle, fumbling it once before he gets it open. He spills out onto the pavement, stumbles back a step, staring at me like he still doesn't believe I'm letting him walk. He left his lunch pail on the floorboard.

I pull the door shut.

The driver glances at me in the rearview.

"Back to the hotel."

"Roger."

He pulls out of the lot. I watch Dane shrink in the side mirror until the SUV turns and he disappears.

I pick the phone back up and swipe to the burner traffic I pulled after that night. Ridge's call came at eleven forty-seven, unknown number, voice modulated, the same robotic voice that called Dane's crew off the door. I read all of it as Duvall's a year ago and stopped there. This time I'm not chasing the voice. You can't pull a man out of a modulator, I'd know. I'm chasing where the calls went.

The driver turns onto the highway. I lean back against the seat and close my eyes.

My head won't stop building the next layer.

The suite is quiet when I step inside. Cera's laptop bag sits on the couch where she left it last night, her shoes lined up neatly by the door.

I set my keys on the counter and glance toward her room. The door's open, bed made, but there's no sign of her.

Then I see her through the glass.

She's out on the balcony, legs propped up on the railing, a laptop balanced on her thighs. She's wearing light cotton shorts and a fitted white T-shirt, hair loose, no makeup. The morning sun catches in it, pulling out the gold highlights.

I stop walking.

She looks soft, not guarded or in business mode, exactly how she should look on her Saturday morning.