She’d done all she could from above the table. But if Embower checked the camera, he’d see her crawl under the table, come running. She had to take the chance. He said he’d be back for dinner. Either way, he’d come soon.

She knocked the remains of her paperback onto the floor, went down after it, reaching into the puddle of garbage and blood. She wrapped her fingertips around the cover’s edge, and pulled. The cover slid to one side, the anchor bolts below straining against the weakened limestone. She put both hands around the loose edge, pulled again.

Her right hand slipped. “Holy shit,” she said, clutching her fingers. The nail from her middle finger floated in the mélange.

She grabbed the cover again, pulled back, and screamed.

Something gave. She fell backward. The cover and its two screws, anchor bolts and all, dripped the stink of cola onto her face.

She tucked the rounded metal under her shirt, crawled out from under the table.

If Embower was watching, she’d hear the fan motor. A minute passed on the alarm clock. Nothing happened. She climbed onto the bed and tucked her new weapon under the sheets.

Another minute passed. Then ten, then twenty.

At 6:22, Caitlin knew what was wrong. Not only had Embower not seen her with the drain cover, he didn’t know the drain had backed up. The pool she’d made didn’t show past the table, and she’d used every bit of liquid in the room.

He would come with dinner and have her put her hands through to be cuffed.

“Shit.”

She looked at the crates near the door. Nothing left but the camp toilet.

“Shit,” she repeated, smiling.

She got herself to the toilet, flipped the lid up and peed. But instead of putting the lid down, she pulled the open toilet onto its side, then climbed onto the bed as the dark blue mix of treatment chemical and fecal matter spread across the floor.

Chapter 78

CHAPTER

78

MIKE PACED IN his hotel room, phone in hand. “I know the story got you in trouble, Lakshmi, but Caitlin needs your help.”

The Anjale girl sounded seconds away from a hang-up. “Call Greenwood if it’s so bloody important.”

“Can’t reach him.”

She gave a frustrated laugh. “Welcome to my world.”

“You know Branford, Lakshmi. You partied with him.”

“Like twice,” she said, “and always at Angela’s place.”

“You’ve got to know something about him or his business that will tell us more. There’s no way he lives in that house.”

“How can you tell?”

Mike laughed. “Nothing in his laundry baskets, nothing in the washer and dryer, and both bathrooms were stocked with brand-new rolls of toilet paper.”

Someone knocked on Mike’s door, three firm raps. A gruff female voice followed. “Mike Roman. BPD.”

“Lakshmi, I gotta go. I’m getting arrested.”

“You’re what?”