“Was just about to ask you the same question,” Paul said. “Frank told me you were meeting us in Long Beach.”

“I had to stop here. Because of you,” Sebastian lied. He took off his sunglasses, eyes flat as he looked down at Paul. “You’re going to need cash so you can hide out until I clean up your epic cluster—”

“Relax. The police aren’t coming anywhere near here.”

“Yeah? And how do you know that?”

“You’re not the only one with friends on the force.” Paul said it like he knew, exactly, the names of those within the LAPD he and Frank had on their payroll. “Trust me, we’ll be fine.”

Paul suddenly reached over the side of his chair to grab something sitting on the ground, behind the table. Sebastian stepped forward, ready to lunge if needed, when Paul stopped and cocked his head up at him, grinning.

“You think I’ve got a gun down here? That I’m going to shoot you in our house?” Paul chuckled and came up with two highball glasses—the set of Baccarat crystal given to Sebastian as a gift by a real estate client who had no idea he was an alcoholic who had been sober for over two decades. Sebastian kept the glasses on a kitchen shelf, where they had gathered dust. Paul, Sebastian noticed, had cleaned them up.

When Paul reached down again, that shit-eating grin still plastered on his face, Sebastian looked over the tops of the neatly trimmed hemlocks, to the house sitting on the hill above them, the sun burning gold and red against the back windows. The windows were shut, always, because nobody was home. Nobody lived there anymore. Sebastian owned the property, had bought it for privacy, and thought maybe he should take Paul down right now. He had fired the subcompact Glock many times. The report was no louder than a car muffler backfiring.

Hand in his pocket, Sebastian threaded his fingers around the Glock and clicked off the safety as Paul came up with a dark bottle of something and placed it on the table. The bottle had a gold crown on the top. Paul turned it around so Sebastian could see the label: thirty-eight-year-old Royal Salute Stone of Destiny blended Scotch whisky.

“You once told me your biggest regret was not having tried this before you got sober,” Paul said.

It was true. Sebastian eyed the bottle, aware that his mouth was actually watering over the thought of having one measly sip.

“This shit’s rare. And expensive,” Paul said. “This bottle cost me almost two grand.”

“And you, what, decided to pick up a bottle today after murdering six innocent people?”

Paul’s eyebrows rose at the word innocent. “Bought it a while ago, actually. Was saving it for a special occasion. And today is a special occasion—it truly is.” He opened the bottle and placed the little gold crown on the table between them. “Guy who sold it to me said it’s important to let the Scotch breathe for a few minutes before you drink it. Why don’t you go grab us some ice?”