There was no response from the bed. Instead, Stella’s eyes scanned the room, looking for her husband, finding him sitting quietly in a chair near the window, his eyes fixed far away. This had to be his worst day ever. Maybe she wanted to spare him the truth, but we were well beyond that point now. When she turned back, she blinked once.

My fingers squeezed the side rail so tightly, I thought I might snap it in two. “And if you could, you’d tell him where to get off, right?”

Her eyes seemed to twinkle. She blinked once. Ron Symonds stood, signaling the end of our time. When Stella’s eyes closed, and stayed closed, he led us out of the room, the three of us huddling at the top of the stairs.

“We’ll book the fake nurse for attempted murder and assault,” Marta said. “And we’ll have a talk with Spada, though we may not be able to hold him unless the nurse gives him up.”

Symonds’s eyes widened. “What about Stella? What if he sends somebody else?”

Marta descended the stairs, her mind likely already on the next thing. “I’ll implement a special attention, send a car out. If you can, get someone, a relative, a friend, to stay close till I end this.”

Symonds turned to me, frightened. “What does that mean? We don’t have anybody. It’s just Stella and me. We’re on our own.”

I thought for a moment, then dug my phone out of my pocket. “No, you’re not.” I dialed the number, waited for the pickup.

“Whip? I need you.”

I was sitting on the Symondses’ front porch, nursing a headache, when a black GMC Yukon pulled up in front of the house and stopped. I eased my hand into my pocket, gripped it around my gun, my eyes on the truck’s windows. Ron Symonds was inside with Stella. It was just me standing watch until the squad car showed up, the one Marta promised. Even still, I knew the squad wouldn’t be there for nearly long enough, not if Spada chose to play the long game. I braced myself when the doors opened, then relaxed when Whip eased out of the driver’s seat. I’d been watching out for his old beater. I hadn’t expected the Yukon. I drew my hand out of my pocket, then stood and watched as three guys nearly as tall and as broad as tackling dummies got out of the car next and sidled over, Whip taking the lead. I’d requested muscle, but this was something else entirely. Whip smiled, but the other three looked as sober as hangmen, as humorless as Tolkien’s Orcs, their arms covered in faded tats, each dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, and Timberland boots. Ex-cons, apparently—the success of their rehabilitation, at the moment, suspect.