And on his way to the top floor, he avoided the squeaking steps—which eliminated three out of every four of the bastards.

The door to his flat opened without a sound because he’d oiled the hinges the night he’d moved in, and with a quick twist of the dead bolt, he locked himself inside. A fast listen told him that there were no sounds other than the television below, but he stayed where he was for a minute and a half just to be sure.

When there was nothing out of order that he could sense, he got down to business.

Lightning fast was the speed. Whisper quiet was the way.

Out of the kitchen. Into the front room.

He took one look at his stuff and knew Grier had rifled through it—the shift in the pile of clothes was so subtle only he would notice, but the folding system he’d developed was designed precisely for that purpose.

He put on the sweatshirt he used as a pillow, slipped his two forties into the fat center pockets in front and changed into his combat boots. Ammo, hunting blade and his cell phone went into his pants, and then he put on the black windbreaker that was all he had, coat-wise.

Down to the bedroom. Into the closet.

There had been twenty-seven thousand eight hundred and fifty-three dollars in his stash, so he should have a little something left over after the bail.

He popped off the panel and reached in—

“Fuck.”

He didn’t have to open the Star Market bag and count; by weight alone, he knew that Grier hadn’t taken even a dollar out of the rolls of hundreds and twenties or the fluffy scruff of the unbundled.

But she had been here—Matthias would have taken the weapons to make him less dangerous. And waited around to shoot him in the head.

Shit . . . the cash-intact crap meant either there was a bondsman involved . . . or she’d bailed him out with her own money. And when he’d been processed, there had been no disclosure about a third party posting the benjamins. So she must have.

Damn it.

Snapping back into action, he took the bag and replaced the section of bead board. Then he went around to the windows and doors, flicking off the receptors with his knife and putting the metal plates into his pockets. No more than three minutes later, he left the way he’d come: out the back and quiet as smoke.

The five hundred dollars he left on the counter in the kitchen was going to have to cover the fact that he was breaking his lease, and Mrs. Mulcahy would have to figure out herself that he’d left when there was no sign of him after a couple of days.

The less contact with him, the safer she was.

Same with his attorney.

God damn it.