I release my grip on Barker’s throat just a little—enough that he can talk.

“Did you hire somebody to come after her?” I snarl. “Were you trying to get even, because she got you fired?”

“She didn’t just get me fired!” Barker spits, still trying to pry my hands off his neck. “My wife left me, too! She’s divorcing me! She cleared out the bank account and took my car and left me with this fuckin’ dog!”

“Did you hire someone to kill Riona?” I roar in his face.

“What? No!” Barker sputters. “Are you insane?”

I squeeze his throat a little harder, lifting his feet up off the kitchen tile.

“Why not?” I snarl. “She ruined your life, right?”

“Even if I wanted to, I don’t have any fuckin’ money!” Barker chokes, his face turning puce. “Plus the Griffins . . . ”

His voice trails off, ‘cause he’s not getting enough air. I have to relax my grip again so he can speak.

“What?” I say. “What about the Griffins?”

“They’re fuckin’ . . . mafia,” he says hoarsely. “I was pissed. But I’m not suicidal.”

I let go of Barker. He rubs his throat dramatically, coughing and wheezing. I can see the imprints of my fingers on his neck. I don’t feel bad about it. I’d like to do a whole lot worse to him.

Dante looks at Barker, gasping dramatically on the floor. The guy looks pathetic as hell. It’s pretty clear that he can’t even clear out his pizza boxes, let alone plot revenge against Riona.

“Let’s go,” Dante says to me.

“Yeah, get the fuck out,” Barker says petulantly. “You fuckin’ psychopaths. Drinking my beer then trying to kill me.”

I turn around, ready to leave Barker’s musty house.

As I take three steps away from him, I hear Barker mutter, “I hope somebody does off that uppity bitch.”

I turn around and clock him—a right cross straight to the jaw. It slams him into the fridge, and he slumps down on the tiles, knocked out cold.

When I face Dante again, he’s watching me, eyebrows raised.

“You okay?” he says.

“Of course.” I shake out my right hand. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t think he had anything to do with hiring the Djinn.”

“Neither do I. But he’s still an asshole.”

The Yorkie is running around our feet again, barking, but not at us—just yapping in general. It doesn’t seem too concerned about its owner slumped down on the floor over by the fridge. In fact, it runs into the living room and pees against the leg of the coffee table, without a care in the world.

Once we’re outside in the chilly air again, Dante takes a deep breath. “That’s better.”

“He’s a mess,” I grunt. “I doubt a shit-stain like Barker has the gumption to hire the Djinn. Or the money to pay him, if what he said about his wife cleaning out the bank accounts was true. If it wasn’t Barker, and it wasn’t the Russians, that only leaves the Hartford family.”