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I don’t answer. This time I see his hand coming, but even though I’m ready for it, the blow is every bit as stunning as the first one. I stagger sideways, my jaw throbbing. My lip stings and when I touch it, I see blood on my fingers.
“I’ll ask again. Are you FBI?” he says.
I draw in a breath. Whisper: “Boston PD.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I’m too demoralized to say a word. I stare down at my blood dripping onto the concrete, blood that will be silent testimony long after I’m dead. I imagine crime scene technicians scouring this warehouse days or weeks or even years from now, staring at the evidence of my demise glowing at their feet. I won’t be able to tell them what happened, but my blood will.
And Jane will take it from there. That is one thing I know I can count on: My daughter will see that justice is done.
“Let’s try this again,” he says. “Where is Nina?”
I merely shake my head.
“Kill her,” he says and turns to walk away.
One of the men pulls out his gun and steps forward.
“Wait,” I say.
The big man turns back.
“The Colonnade Hotel,” I blurt. The name pops into my head only because it’s where Agnes Kaminsky’s grandniece had her wedding reception. I remember the three-tiered cake and champagne and the startlingly short groom. It’s just a Hail Mary answer, one that they’ll be able to knock down with a quick visit to the hotel, but it’s all I can come up with to delay the inevitable.
“What name is she registered under?”
“Kaminsky,” I answer, hoping there isn’t really anyone named Kaminsky staying there.
He glances at the van driver. “Get over there. Check it out.”
And that will be the end of this charade, I think. When he finds out I’ve been bluffing and the woman they’re hunting for isn’t there. I can’t think of anything else I can say or do to save myself. I can think only of the people I love and how I’ll never see them again.
The driver climbs into the van and pulls out of the warehouse.A half hour, an hour at the most, I think. That’s all it will take to expose me as a liar. I glance around, looking for an escape route. I see construction equipment—a cement truck, an earthmover—but there is no exit except for the open bay door which is now blocked by the men.
The big man drags over a crate and sits down. He looks at his knuckles and gives his hand a shake. The asshole bruised himself hitting me. Good. He looks at his watch, scratches his nose, ordinary gestures by an ordinary-looking man. He doesn’t look like a monster but he is, and I think about how courageous Nina is, to go up against him. I remember her nervous face and the note she left on my porch, asking me to leave them alone. All this time I thought she was afraid of her husband, when she was really afraid of these men.
I flinch at the sound of his ringing cell phone. He pulls it from his pocket and says: “Yeah?”
And now it ends. He’s going to hear there’s no Kaminsky registered at the Colonnade. He’ll know I’m lying.
“Who is this?” he snaps. “How did you get this number?”
The roar of an engine makes both men whip around toward the open bay door as a black SUV comes hurtling into the warehouse. It screeches to a stop just inches from the men.
This is my chance.Maybe my only chance. I take it.
I’m blocked from fleeing through the bay door, so I slip around behind the Escalade and dart toward the cement truck.
“What the fuck?” yells the man.
I’m crouched behind the cement truck so I can’t see what’s going on, but I hear other tires screeching to a stop as more vehicles skid into the building. I hear shouts and the thud of boots landing on concrete.
And gunfire. Oh Jesus, it’s a mob execution. And I’m right in the middle of it.
I scramble further into the warehouse and dive underneath an earthmover. They’re too busy fighting for their own lives; maybe they’ll forget I’m here. And after they’ve finished shooting one another, after all the bodies have fallen, I can creep out and slip away. Escape the carnage. I curl into a tight ball, cover my head, and silently chant the mantra: They can’t see me. I’m invisible. I’m invisible.
My arms are so tightly wrapped around my head that it takes a moment for me to realize the shooting has stopped. That no one’s yelling anymore. Like a tortoise slowly emerging from its shell, I cautiously poke my head out and hear…
