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“Yeah, and you see my jersey number?” Jimmy pointed. “Nineteen. See, it’s really, like, my lucky number. I only had nineteen cents in my pocket the day we met. I’ll never forget that. Oh, and Rowena shot Dickie nineteen times. Well, I don’t know if I should count that or not, but eh, still nineteen.”

Cold had the strangest look on his face, still staring at the picture of Jimmy.

“What? Is my number story not exciting enough for you?”

Cold looked up at him, saying slowly, “Jimmy.”

“Yes?”

“I know who killed your mother.”

There was not a shred of doubt in Cold’s eyes.

Still, Jimmy scoffed. “Come on.”

Cold didn’t say anything.

“You’re serious. Well… who?”

Closing his eyes, Cold took a deep breath and grasped Jimmy’s hand. “I can’t tell you.”

“What the hell, Rod?” Jimmy jerked his hand back, hurt and confused. “You suddenly somehow magically figured out who killed my mother, and you won’t freakin’ tell me?”

Cold reached for Jimmy’s hand again, and his voice was soothing as he tried to explain himself. “Jimmy. Do you want to get your father out of prison?”

“Of course I do,” Jimmy fussed, desperate to understand. “But what does that have to do with—”

“Everything,” Cold insisted.

“I don’t understand.”

“I need you to trust me. And I am going to invite Detective Duplin over as soon as possible.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jimmy snapped, his voice hitting a particularly shrill note.

“No. He has his part to play in all of this. If we’re going to get justice for your mother and save your father, we need Detective Duplin’s assistance. We need proof.”

“He’s not gonna help.” Jimmy grimaced.

Cold smiled slyly. “Yes, he will. I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

“Too early to be quoting The Godfather,” someone grumbled from the other side of the doors.

“Good morning, Jules.” Cold chuckled.

Jules pushed open one of the bedroom doors and lumbered in, tousled from sleep. He had changed out of his bloody clothes and now wore sweats and a thin tank top that stretched over his broad chest.

“What? No breakfast in bed for the patient?” Cold pretended to pout.

“Fuck you.” Jules growled. “You can get it yourself. I know you’re feeling fine ’cause I had to fuckin’ lay there and listen to you givin’ it to Twig last night.”

“Wait, you, you were out there?” Jimmy shrunk down. “In the den?”

“I said I was crashin’ on the couch. What fuckin’ couch did you think I meant?”

“Not that one!”

Cold snickered.