The door opened a crack. I took another step back and waited, but Darby didn’t step out. He looked like he wanted to—his breathing was quick now, his face a sheet of stone, a tiny vein in the side of his neck pulsed to beat the band—but he eased the door closed again, his hand on the knob. It wouldn’t have taken much to put him back behind bars; by his restraint, it was obvious he didn’t want to go.

“I think you know what happened to Tim,” I said. “I intend on proving it.”

Darby made a sound, low, almost like an animal’s growl. I moved my hand closer to my holster, took another step back.

“I see you following me or hanging around where I hang around and you’re going to regret it.” He issued the threat through clenched teeth.

I was mindful of the door’s position, gauging his level of irritation. It looked high. I had no way of knowing, however, how impulsive he was, how much of a temper he had. Prodding him might shake something loose that he didn’t intend to let go, or it could backfire. Back away or keep going? I stood there for a moment, thinking it over. It didn’t take long. I’d never been good at backing away from a fight.

“What’d you do with the photos you took of me? Who’d you show them to?”

I’d stopped breathing a long time ago, but I kept my wits about me, my weight distributed evenly on the balls of my feet in case I had to make a run for it.

“I see you again, I’ll break you in two,” Darby said.

It looked like he meant it, and the eerie silence that followed the threat was enough to stand the hairs at the back of my neck on end. I had no problem believing that this man, this con, this pretty boy, could kill a man if properly motivated, even a dying one, though that would take a special kind of evil. The corners of Darby’s mouth flicked upward, and he cocked his head. “You’re still here?” He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “Your funeral.”

When the door slammed in my face, I let out a long, deep breath, and shook my hands out to get the ice from my fingers. My heart thumped so loudly, I could hear it echoing in my ears. My funeral? Bah. If I had a nickel for every time somebody planned my funeral, I’d be up to my ears in Jeffersons. Still, I had to admit, the delivery had been horrifying.