He wondered if the woman knew what her husband had been up to, gambling away their home, then gambling away her five-year-old son. When he’d first overheard Brewer at Richard’s poker game, he’d assumed that the man’s wife had not known. Brewer had mentioned that delivery needed to occur that very night, because his wife was out of town. But now, after seeing her interviewed by the TV news, anything seemed possible. With heroin addicts, all bets were off. They’d do anything to feed their habit, including selling their own souls.

Patting his coat pockets, he confirmed that he had his weapons and the gift for Mrs. Brewer. He’d found the heroin in the pocket of Blake Emerson, the guy who’d tried to buy Joshua Rowland. Cade hoped she’d be enticed enough to tell him what he wanted to know. If not, he’d have to resort to more violent means.

Which was fine, especially if she’d known or even suspected what her husband was doing. If she’d willingly put her son in danger, she deserved everything she got.

He carefully approached the house from the rear, staying in the shadows. The place hadn’t had an alarm system when he had been here the week before. If one had been installed in the meantime, he’d be very surprised.

A light came on in the kitchen as he lurked near the back door that led to the garage. A woman paced nervously back and forth by the window, a glass of wine in her hand. This was even better. He could discuss things with her in the kitchen and be closer to his escape route. He’d been antsy about having to go to her bedroom, especially after having George Garrett pull a gun on him the night before.

He pulled out the key ring he’d taken from Brewer’s pocket the night he’d killed him. He lucked out when the first key fit the lock. He slipped into the garage and pulled the door closed, locking it. If the cop outside did his perimeter check before Cade was finished, there would be nothing to raise suspicion.

An inner door in the garage led to a laundry room. Cade pulled his gun from his pocket and racked the slide. There. Ready for any surprises.

He cracked the laundry room door, knowing from his last trip to the house that it opened into the kitchen. Brewer’s wife was still pacing, the bracelets on her right arm jangling. She was muttering to herself.

“Goddamn cops. Goddamn Michael. Goddamn John. Goddamn them all,” she chanted, her hands shaking so hard that the wine sloshed from the glass she carried. “Need a little. Just a little. Just a little.”