‘I do,’ she lies. ‘Of course I do. I just lost it there for a minute. Don’t worry, we can figure this out.’

She turns towards the coffee table, where her handbag still sits. I realise what she’s doing a fraction of a second before she does it. She reaches for the handbag. I kick it off the table. A bunch of things skitter out across the floor—a wallet, some painkillers, a set of keys … and a Glock 17M.

We both dive for the gun. I push her fumbling hands out of the way and grab it.

‘No!’ she screams.

I scramble away from her so she can’t snatch it out of my grip. She puts her hands up. She’s shaking.

I don’t point it at her, still telling myself I can fix this. I keep it by my side.

‘Please believe me,’ I say. ‘Please.’

‘I do believe you,’ she lies. ‘Of course I do. Just put the gun down and we’ll talk.’

The vision of us as old people in rocking chairs fades away like smoke. Tears spring into my eyes. ‘I can’t.’

She changes tactics. ‘You’re sick, Blake. You need help. You don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘I am sick.’ My throat is closing up. It’s hard to get the words out. ‘But not in the way you think. I promise. I didn’t kill that guy. Either of them.’

Another mistake. If I was innocent, I might have assumed the head belonged to the body in the yard.

‘Put the gun down,’ Thistle says. She’s crying too. ‘I don’t have to call the police, okay? We can figure this out.’

She’s trying to trick me. I force a smile. ‘I can find the real killer. If I catch him, you’ll believe me then, right?’

‘I believe you now. We’ll figure out what happened together. Okay? Just give me the gun.’

I realise her phone isn’t in her hands anymore. My guess is that it’s in her pocket, listening to this conversation. Either she decided to call 911 and wait for a few decades, or she’s hit redial and called Vasquez. He’ll be sending people here right now.

I pick up Thistle’s keys off the floor. ‘Where are you going?’ she asks.

I should give her a fake destination, to buy myself some time. That would be the smart thing to do.

But I can’t lie to her. Not now. Not when I’m so desperate to win back her trust.

‘I don’t know,’ I say truthfully. Then I back away, out the door.

•

I’m driving aimlessly through the light and shadow of Houston by night. The AC blows warm air on my bare feet. I can hardly see the road through the tears.