There were worse ways to die than dozing off at the wheel, he reasoned. He thought of his own father climbing the safety wall with the Point Fermin lighthouse at his back. He imagined the long, sickening fall to the rocks below. He thought of Ormsby, eyes agog, bleeding out on the kitchen floor, pressing his hand to his throat and feeling the hot, slick pulse of life spewing between his fingers. Had the man looked down the dimly lit hallway and seen Eve cowering at the far end, white-faced with the realization of what she’d done? Or had he looked up to see her standing over him, smoking gun in hand, peering down at him dispassionately, waiting to make sure the wound was fatal? Yes, there were worse ways to die.

He imagined Eve now in the looming shadows of the pier’s great pylons, her back pressed against the tarry wood, watching for him. Whose gun would she be holding tonight? What new patsy had she seduced to help her? He saw shadows and broad-shouldered figures and the glint of gunmetal in the moonlight. He smelled the dank, waterlogged air—

At first, he thought a low-flying plane was crossing overhead, but the red lights sweeping down at him from the sky were on the descending arm of a railroad crossing. He hit the brakes hard but could feel that it was too late, so he gunned the engine and felt the rear wheels of his car fishtail to the right.

The descending arm bounced across the ragtop roof as he sped under it. His wheels clattered across the rails, and he felt a hot light, like a spotlight, bearing down on him from the passenger side. Once he was clear of the tracks, he braked, nearly stalling the car again. Heart hammering, he watched the hulking engine and the first freight cars hurtle past from right to left in the rearview mirror. The ground beneath him trembled up through the car’s undercarriage. He laughed bitterly, still catching his breath. It would be just his luck to cheat the hangman, to die, inanely, on the way to the noose, tripping and breaking his neck on the gallows steps.

He put on his turn signal, though the street was empty in all directions, and headed west down Venice Boulevard. A few blocks ahead of him, the row of streetlights ended abruptly in a black abyss where the Pacific waited.

A half-block from PCH, Keegan coasted over to the side of the road, until his hubcap scraped the high curb. He braked to a stop. The block was posted for no overnight parking, so the curb was empty. He set the parking brake. A parking ticket was the least of his worries—and at least someone would notice if he didn’t come back for his car. They’d run his plates. Trace who he was. Find the note on his kitchen table. Nora would be fine.