Ennis lay on a seat in the back of the abandoned bus. He could hear footsteps outside, shuffling through the gravel, but he remained still. Another thing you learned in prison was how to quiet your mind, your body, and even your breathing to remain as unmoving as a corpse.

Ennis closed his eyes and listened. The school bus garage was located on Eighth Street, just off West College, down the hill from Martin Methodist. Sometimes Ennis could hear the faint sounds of campus life. The happy screams and laughter of coeds going out for the night. The honking of horns. Even the echoes of a trumpet from band practice.

But now, though the night was still young, all Ennis heard were the footsteps growing closer. Then the squeaking hinges of the bus door opening. Seconds later, a shadow appeared above him, and then a man came into view holding a large briefcase in his left hand and a two-by-four stick of lumber in his right. “You did a good job, Sheriff. Are you ready to collect?”

Ennis sat up straight and leaned his back against the bus’s window. He peered at the man standing above him. Finn Pusser had the cold, dead eyes of a contract killer. As the high sheriff of Giles County, Tennessee, and then an inmate himself, Ennis knew the varying looks of criminals. The wild and reckless eyes of an abusive husband. The puffy faces and hazy expressions of druggies. And the nervous and herky-jerky movements of dealers. Finn’s demeanor impressed Ennis much more than the other types.

“Set the case on the ground.”

“You’re not going to count it? A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

“No need. I doubt Mr. Zannick wants to cross me.”

Finn smiled. “On the contrary, he wants you to stay on the payroll.”

Ennis slowly shook his head. “Tell him, no thanks. I did what he asked. In return, he helped me get parole and delivered the money he promised.” Ennis paused. “We’re even.”

Finn tossed the piece of lumber from his right hand to his left and back. Then he smiled. “Suit yourself. But remember something, Sheriff.” Finn stepped forward and stuck the two-by-four an inch from Ennis’s face. “It would be wise to remain a friend of Mr. Zannick.”

Ennis took slow and deliberate breaths as he watched Finn leave the bus. Glancing out the window, he saw the gray sedan pull away, and though the windows were tinted, he knew there were other men in the car. Finn Pusser was Michael Zannick’s muscle, and Ennis figured the Irishman had brought reinforcements.

Once the vehicle was out of sight, Ennis scooted forward until he could reach the briefcase. He unclicked it and gazed at the stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills. God forgive me, he thought, as images of what had happened forty-eight hours ago flashed through his mind. The things he’d seen. What he’d done.