"Wife left him, he says."

She feels queasy. Traitorous. A dirty quisling.

"Then he's got money. Probably doesn't keep it in a bank, either, because one day you're in Toledo, the next you're in Portland, the third day you're in Assfuck, New Mexico – if you can't find a bank, and you want money, you gotta pay all those fees. Plus, half these trucker assholes are cranked up on amphetamines they buy at rest stops. Dealers and pimps don't take debit cards. Trust me."

"He's not a dope fiend."

Ashley shrugs. "Yeah, you know him so well. So, back to the original question: How does he bite it? Car wreck? That'll suck, because he probably keeps the cash in his truck. Won't help us if it all burns up."

"He dies in a lighthouse. In–" She does some quick math. "Two weeks. Fourteen days."

"How?"

"I'm not telling."

"That's awfully fourth grade of you."

"It's private. It's his death."

"You get to know it."

She takes a drag off her smoke. "And I wish I didn't."

"Fine. Whatever. A lighthouse is at least a scenic way to go, so how nice for him. We're in North Carolina, and up the coast are what I imagine to be a shit-ton of lighthouses." He starts pacing. "Okay, here's the plan. Get close to him. Call him tomorrow. Go out with him. We got two weeks, so we need to know where he's going to be when he sucks the pipe."

"That's your genius plan? That's why I need you?"

He shrugs. "I didn't hear you come up with it."

"And tell me, why don't we just take his money while he's still alive?"

"Because people who are alive don't like you taking their stuff. People who are dead make fewer calls to 911."

She watches him carefully. "And none of this bothers you? You're not jealous?"

"I don't mind being green with envy if I'm also green with a wad of hundred-dollar bills," he says. "Now let's hit the sack. I'm beat."

SEVENTEEN

Blood and Balloons

Miriam jolts awake. A shadow passes over her eyes.

She sits up. Her eyes adjust to the darkness. Ashley lies next to her, unmoving.

Her eyes catch sight of the shadow again – it eases into the corner, then ducks into the bathroom, a whispery, crinkly sound accompanying the drifting shape.

She reaches down over the edge of the bed, her hand darting into her messenger bag and coming up with the butterfly knife, a knife she bought at a flea market in Delaware for six bucks. Soundlessly, she flips open the blade.

Her feet touch carpet. Gentle steps stalking the shape.

Her free hand slides along the wall around the doorframe of the bathroom. Fingers find the light switch.

Click. Harsh, garish light.

Her heart stops.

A red Mylar balloon floats in the upper corner of the bathroom. It bobs and shifts. On the balloon is a picture of a cake, and above the cake, written in the cartoony flames of the cake's candles, is a message: Happy Birthday, Miriam.