She was chatting away animatedly, and her companion—he checked the man’s finger and amended that—her husband was listening to every word, turning now and then to nod at her, the hard edges of his face softening each time he glanced over. The doting husband. The investment banker and the…kindergarten teacher, or maybe a pediatric nurse—she had the cheerful vibrancy of someone who worked with children. Probably had a few of them at home, tucked away with the sitter for the night.

A pang of remorse ran through him. If only she could have been his victim. Now, that would have been a coup. The world would be appalled by the death of the old man, but someone like this, they’d be outraged. They’d demand action. Parade her crying children on television, her grief-stricken husband, her shell-shocked co-workers and neighbors, all telling the world what a kind, caring woman she’d been, and the nation would demand that the killing be stopped. As the regret over lost opportunity washed over him, he passed the couple, so close he could have reached out and—

The woman said something and her husband gave a low chuckle. Hearing the sound, he froze in midstep, then turned, slowly. That low laugh had triggered a connection in his brain, and he realized he’d been too quick to dismiss the gut-level recognition. He did know this man. Had known him well, once upon a time. He told himself he was wrong—he had to be—but his gut refused to believe it.

Still, the coincidence had to be just that—a coincidence. But as he replayed the last minute in his head, he saw the “banker’s” gaze, in constant motion as he’d walked, watchful, scanning, searching.

He glanced over his shoulder and found the couple in the throng. The woman’s grip tightened on the man’s arm. Their eyes met. Her head tilted to the left, toward a side corridor, and they veered that way, still talking, as if they’d been heading in that direction all along. He remembered that Internet chatter about hitmen teaming up to find him, and his gut tightened with an unexpected jolt of pain. So it was true. And this was who it was.

“But not for long, Jack,” he murmured. “Not for long.”

By the time the usher arrived, a crowd had gathered at the bathroom door. Two men argued over the best way to open it—credit card or a hard shoulder shove.

Just open it! Grace wanted to scream, but the words jammed in her throat and all she could think about was Cliff’s laugh and David, slumped on the garage floor, dead from a heart attack, just minutes after he’d kissed her good-bye. A split second, that’s all it took, and your world was shattered.

“Oh, God, please, please, please,” she whispered under her breath.