The doors that could open now were the doors to the Brennan vault itself. What did Devlin have to do? Outlive Jim and Charlotte, then hire that lawyer who ate his children. The whole deal might cost Devlin no more than the first twenty-five-cent call to the lawyer. In fact, unless he signed documents stating otherwise, Devlin stood to inherit control of the entire fortune, as Brennan himself had done so many years ago.

Devlin had always known he could get something, if he wanted to press a case. Five figures minimum. Brennan was old, Joe was dead. Devlin was a loose end that could be tied up with—how much? A hundred grand? Fifty, easy. Cash. The lowest possible offer if Devlin walked in off the street. Never mind the maiming threat. Brennan was too old, too damned much time had passed, even if he wasn’t the invalid the world had been told. But Devlin had given up that kind of thinking when he had resolved to get sober and stay that way. Only a guy like Jim Brennan wouldn’t believe it. A guy like Jim Brennan never could find selflessness, or decency, or a sense of fair play motivating anybody.…

The frame never was supposed to fit. After all the bullshit, Devlin was supposed to have walked.

Ask your wife.

If DiBennedetti and company had wanted to twist a knife, Brennan was the perfect target for a double cross. Had he seen Jack’s death coming? Maybe he’d known Joe’s death had been murder. How far back did a deal like this go? How old was DiBennedetti?

Devlin wanted to see Eileen. He had never thought of an alternative to life in New York because it had never been forced upon him, but now alternatives were parading across his imagination like models in a fashion show. He would think about Maryellen later. If he had learned anything in forty-three years about the workings of his mind, he had learned that he would think of Maryellen later. This time would be different. As pitiable as she was, he felt no pity for her at all.

He didn’t think he would ever feel anything for her again.