“I’ve got this itch,” I said to my dog. “There’s something unsettled.”

You always get that itch, he huffed. Maybe you need that itch to make yourself feel good. To make yourself feel special. Needed.

The late afternoon sun flickered through the loblollies that grew tall by the riverbank, and the air moved through the small hairs on my arms. I got up ten minutes later. Loaded Purvis into my truck and headed home.

In the shower, I let the hot water soak into my skin. I got out, poured a Dr Pepper on ice, and put on the Braves game.

I knew the right thing was to let the case go, but the call from the governor nagged at me.

Monroe had asked me to shoot a man. And I’d taken the shot.

Had losing my wife and son made me open to drawing blood whenever it was needed? Had it made me reckless?

And then there were two other questions, the first of which was on my mind all day.

Did I take the shot because Monroe asked me, or because Harrington was about to unload that .38?

Whatever the answer was, it was good that the case was over.

I mean—it was over, right?

Because that was the second question.

9

I woke up four hours later to the sound of Peter Moylan on my big-screen TV. A postgame report was under way, and I saw that the Braves had lost to the Phillies 5–9.

Out the front window, it was pitch-black, and I needed to talk to someone about what had gone down at the school. I rang up Remy’s cell, but she didn’t answer.

After a half hour of waiting on a text, I got in my Silverado and headed to her place. At least I’d see if her lights were on.

Driving over, I decided that if Remy and I were going to be partners again, I needed to lay it all out. To tell Remy how the governor had used his influence to find me the address of a man named Kian Tarticoft this past May. A man who wasn’t just the main suspect in our case back then, but who had also driven my wife and son off the road. To tell her how Monroe fed me that address. And how, because of that, I owed the governor a favor.

As I pulled up outside, I saw a light on in the corner unit on the third floor.

Remy was up, even now at eleven p.m. Maybe like me, her head was spinning from the last thirty hours.

I caught the lobby door as a couple walked out, and I headed for the elevator, not needing to bug Remy to buzz me up.

There was a chance this could go sideways on me. A chance that Remy might tell me to go to Senza and lay things out for the chief to decide. What I knew of Kian Tarticoft last May. The deal I’d struck with Monroe. And the call yesterday on the roof behind the school.