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Chapters (97)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. 1.
  6. 2.
  7. 3.
  8. 4.
  9. 5.
  10. 6.
  11. 7.
  12. 8.
  13. 9.
  14. 10.
  15. 11.
  16. 12.
  17. 13.
  18. 14.
  19. 15.
  20. 16.
  21. 17.
  22. 18.
  23. 19.
  24. SIX MONTHS LATER
  25. 20.
  26. 21.
  27. 22.
  28. 23.
  29. 24.
  30. 25.
  31. 26.
  32. 27.
  33. 28.
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  38. 33.
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  85. 80.
  86. 81.
  87. 82.
  88. 83.
  89. 84.
  90. 85.
  91. 86.
  92. 87.
  93. SIX MORE MONTHS LATER
  94. 88.
  95. 89.
  96. Discover More
  97. About the Author

Detective Lopez had offered a police cruiser to give them a lift to the hospital but Zack said he needed to walk a little first.

He just needs a couple of blocks. Of fresh air, decompression, a couple of minutes before they hail a cab to go over and see Steve.

A few precious minutes. Of not being chased. Or threatened. Or terrified.

A few precious minutes. On a day—Jesus, a single day—that came at him full force, unrelenting, frenzied, furious, no time to think, only to react.

Just a minute or two, to walk a few blocks with Emily.

Just the two of them. Taking each other’s hands. Walking silently. Together.

Alive.

No cell phone in his pocket.

And boy that feels nice.

SIX MONTHS LATER

20.

20.

Joey Richter awakens.

Lies staring at the bunk above him.

It’s empty, thankfully.

An empty, quiet jail cell where, for most hours of the day and night, nothing intrudes. No guards. No prisoners. Nothing. The drone of the TV in the corridor—for Joey, it’s familiar, soothing background noise.

Months now. Days that have stretched to weeks that have stretched to months while the wheels of justice…don’t spin. Remain in place. Held by the brakes of lawyers jostling—venue discussions, admissibility of evidence, jury selection. All the legal maneuvering that he experiences as a lot of noise, a version of the blaring TV in the corridor.

Joey doesn’t mind the jail time. He’s comfortable back inside. The booking, that fat pig Lopez, the grinding gears of the system, it’s all a blur. But he’s back now where he’s comfortable with the routines, with the predictability and rhythm of the days and nights and the familiar sounds and familiar pace, with the feel of time itself.

Almost no one to deal with. He could stay here forever.

He won’t though. Because although it’s stretched to months, this jail cell is, by the rules of the justice system, only a temporary home.

He’ll end up in prison somewhere. A permanent one, no term or release date discussion, no parole hearings, consecutive sentences of hundreds of years, he is sure. A hired killer, after all. An unfeeling, mercenary “cold-blooded assassin,” paid in cash.

On the other hand, his lawyers have been asking him about his “cognitive issues.” He doesn’t know how the justice system will view those. Is it a handicap? A mental defect? He can’t tell. He inhabits his own brain, the only brain he knows, so he’s in no position to judge.

The death penalty is no longer enforced in the state of New York. But it’s still on the books. So could he still be executed? His lawyers shake their heads but he doesn’t really know.