We searched for longer than we should have. If I needed further proof that Jack was as frustrated by this “interruption” as I was, this was it. After a thorough sweep, we should have left, in case the dozing guard awoke. Even more dangerous was our pursuer himself, possibly holed up somewhere, gun poised, ready to blast if anything crept past his hiding spot. That I realized this first—when the black fury over losing our prey lifted long enough for me to take stock of my situation—proved how furious Jack was.

When I did realize it, I felt a lick of fear, worried that if I suggested we should quit, he’d turn that anger on me. Yet I didn’t get more than a whispered “Jack, I think—” out before he was nodding and nudging me to a quiet spot, where he said the very words I’d been ready to speak, as if he’d already realized we should leave and had just been holding out a few minutes longer before surrendering.

And it did feel like surrender. Jack said our target had probably left, and I agreed, but we both knew neither of us believed it. Even if we suspected it, we wanted to be sure, to cover every square inch, hunt until dawn drove us off.

It was a silent drive to the hotel.

Instead of letting me sink into my black thoughts, the quiet refocused my attention. Jack was just as angry, just as frustrated as I was, and what I felt was the overwhelming need, not to join him, but to pull him out of it. Help him as he’d helped me last night, after the opera.

Yet last night, he’d initially seemed uncertain how to help, leaving my room to buy a bottle. Only later did he hit on the perfect diversion—And so now I sat there, wishing I knew him better, knew how to help.

When we finally reached the hotel and got inside, I said the only thing I could think of.

“You got him. Shot him, I mean. For all we know, he’s holed up, dead.”

Jack shook his head, tossing his keys on the dresser, rattling as they collapsed in a heap.

“Fucked up,” he said.

“You? I never even got off a shot.”

He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the chair then, with a glance my way, picked it up and laid it neatly across the back. I watched him, measuring the set of his jaw, the force of his footfalls as he crossed the room. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, vertebrae crackling. Then he kicked off his shoes, thumping one-two on the carpet.

“Fucked up,” he said again, as if he’d never paused the conversation. “Back at Little Joe’s place. That punk. Message wasn’t enough.”

“We don’t know that. This was more likely Gallagher’s man—”