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He’s opening the candy bar.
“All I want to know is where I can find Abdilhali.”
He’s eating the candy bar now, but stops to look at me. “I want it in writing.”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll get you moved to a private cell. And tomorrow, I’ll talk to the Wit-Sec program. You could start over. Would you like that?”
He takes a breath and inexplicably, his eyes fill. He looks away, and I do too.
This, I did not expect. But then again, when you find yourself too far down a path, rescue feels so improbable that when it shows up, it takes everything inside you to reach out for it.
Yes, I’m talking about me, too. Because I am starting to get glimpses of the man I was, or left behind in this timelin
e, and I’m keenly aware that I have this one chance.
No matter what happens, I’m holding onto Eve. I’m reaching out for help to Burke, and I’m going to fight the anger that has clearly overrun my life.
At least, I hope so.
“He operates out of a laundry in the Village West Market.”
Of course he does.
“Thank you, Ari.” I get up.
“I get my own cell, right?” He has drawn up one knee, wrapped his arm around it, and is holding on.
“I got ya,” I say and gesture to the officer to let me out.
I stop by the warden’s office, a man I haven’t yet met, but I’m in the moment we shake hands. He’s got a copy of The Last Year on his shelves, my New York Times best-seller, and I agree to an autograph for the small favor of putting Ari in a private cell, just for the night.
Tomorrow, I’ll talk with Booker and see if we can get him better protection. Or better yet, I’ll talk to Danny Mulligan.
Who is going to so owe me after tonight.
12
Her father was going to murder her.
That might be going a little far. He was going to murder Rembrandt Stone. He’d just disown her.
What had she been thinking, inviting Rem to her family’s Fourth of July party?
“Are you done with this sandwich?”
The voice jerked her back her microscope, where Eve was examining the cufflink she’d found on the street at Gretta’s murder scene.
Silas picked up her bag, the other half of her ham sandwich inside. “Is this from that new deli down the street?”
“Yes,” she said, then walked over and took the bag. “And no, I’m not finished.”
“Looks good. What is it—ham?”
“Minced Ham Salad, my new favorite.” Funny that Rembrandt knew that—it was such an odd filling for a sandwich. But he’d dropped it on her counter like he brought her lunch every day, the gesture familiar and easy.
Strange, but she felt exactly that way with Inspector Stone. As if she’d known him all her life, the conversation between them fitting like an old shoe. Except, she barely knew the man, save for the hours and hours she’d invested in his memoir.
So maybe that was it—she knew him from his book. And perhaps their countless imagined conversations.
