My soft laugh echoed through the backyard. “Tastes like shit, but it does the job, huh?”

“Yeah.”

We were leaning on the railing, side by side, staring out into the night. There was a sharp wind coming from the north, but Jack had moved close, blocking it for me. I had my hands wrapped around my still-warm mug, sipping it as Jack smoked.

I longed to ask him about Evelyn. To tell him about her “offer.” Not to set him against her, but to get his opinion, as the person who knew her best. When he said this was my decision to make, I knew he meant that. I also knew that accepting this job, accepting Evelyn’s help, wouldn’t mean giving up his. He’d never make me choose.

Would she? Maybe. As fond as she was of Jack, she wasn’t one to share.

Two years ago, Jack hadn’t wanted me becoming Evelyn’s project. Why? What danger was there in accepting the tutelage of the woman who’d trained him, a person he still obviously trusted, still had a relationship with?

Good enough for him. Why not good enough for me two years ago? And what had changed now?

So many questions—and here, alone in the dark, I could have asked. I should have asked. But I couldn’t find the right words. So we stood there looking out over the yard. I drank my hot chocolate, shared his cigarette and his company…and asked him nothing.

The next morning, Evelyn didn’t mention the “offer.” Nor did I. We had breakfast, then Jack and I got ready to go. Back to Little Joe. As Jack promised, I was miniskirt free. No high heels or push-up bras, either. My outfit was pretty much what I’d normally wear at this time of year—jeans, a turtleneck and a denim jacket. The disguise started at the neck, with Evelyn’s long brunette wig and my new green contacts. I’d added a needle-thin scar under my eye, the kind of distinguishing feature that doesn’t really stand out, but would be the first thing you’d mention in a witness ID.

Jack had dressed casually as well—in jeans and a thick pullover that, with some padding, bulked him out from well built to hefty. A sandy-brown wig and glasses, and he was the other half of a middle-class couple going to visit an old family friend in the nursing home.

As Jack drove, the radio station we were listening to faded. I flipped the dial and caught:

“—killer’s demand was delivered to over fifty media outlets at 9 a.m. eastern standard time. The FBI has requested a publication ban until they verify that it is not a hoax, but fledgling network TNC has announced plans to air it in a special broadcast at ten this morning—”

I glanced at the car stereo clock: 9:43.