The line went dead. Toby placed the receiver back on its cradle. For a moment he thought he was going to throw up, but he managed to get hold of his fear and keep his stomach down. It would be over tomorrow. That was what he’d been told, and after that … well, he’d just have to see how things played out.

SIXTY

The address she’d given him was at the terminal end of Kneeland Street, at the edge of Chinatown, in the no-man’s-land in between Downtown, the South End, and the Back Bay. It was the spot where Boston’s two major highways intersected, with Interstate 93 splitting north toward New Hampshire and south toward Cape Cod, and the Massachusetts Turnpike springing west toward the wealthy suburbs and on to Worcester and Springfield. All around, the surface roads yielded to hideous on-ramps, rising from the earth like unholy cement monuments, and gave way to dark, cavernous tunnel openings. As Cormack guided his car to a parking spot outside a former industrial warehouse, the surroundings seemed a testament to the ugliness that human progress sometimes left in its wake.

The elevator in the building hadn’t been replaced when the place had been converted to lofts, so Cormack had to pull the metal fencing at the front closed before pushing the button to the fifth floor. The elevator rose through the heart of the building, until it stopped at his destination and he pulled the gate open.

Kit Steele’s loft was at the end of the dark, barren hallway. It was a corner unit—probably twelve hundred square feet of open space—with industrial wood floors that, if properly refurbished, would have been considered trendy. She opened the door almost immediately when he knocked, as though she had been waiting at the threshold, anticipating his arrival.

“Hello,” she said. Her voice was reedy. She stepped back to allow him in.

He looked around. “So this is your place,” he said, taking it in. It had potential she’d neglected to fulfill. The corner windows looked southeast, over the highways to South Boston and the harbor beyond, with its endless construction along the shore in the waterfront district. It was early evening, but already dark outside, and the lights twinkled in the city stretched out toward the water. The ceilings seemed impossibly high, with exposed wood beams and pipes painted off-white. The interior corner was a kitchen area, with a large sink and oversized appliances. An old butcher-block island separated it from the rest of the loft. There was a nondescript sofa set along the windows with a coffee table in front of it, and mismatched chairs on either side. There was no dining area he could see. At the far end of the loft, there was a partial wall that rose halfway toward the ceiling, blocking off what he assumed was a bedroom nook. “It’s nice,” he lied.