An hour later, I’ve gone through the phone bills, banking statements, and credit card bills from three of the five bins. I’ve got various documents stacked on the kitchen counters, the couch, the two chairs in the den, and even the windowsills. Wilson was following me as I placed envelopes in various stacks around the room, but now he’s collapsed on his bed and is snoring softly. Numbers and letters are starting to swim in my head, it’s north of one o’clock, and whatever logic center exists in my brain is getting as mushy as an overripe avocado. It’s time to throw in the towel, at least for tonight. It’s the law of diminishing returns. The more time I put into this right now, the less efficient I’ll be in terms of getting results. Or something like that. I’m not entirely fucking sure, because I’m exhausted and got shot at earlier this evening—or yesterday, whatever—and I just want to close my eyes and sleep.

I manage to put all the stacks on the couch into the appropriate bins and then lie down, sighing with relief. Wilson jumps up onto the couch with me and snuggles at the far end between my feet, and I’m worried my brain will decide this is the moment to kick on, a little burst of cortisol to wake me up, but instead I’m pulled under like a swimmer slipping underneath the surface of the water and drift down, down into the darkness.

I SPRING OFF the couch, grabbing the hand that is shaking me by the shoulder and bringing my other hand up to rake the man’s eyes, when he shouts into my face, “Susannah! It’s Ethan, Suzie. It’s me.”

Wide-eyed and panting, I stare at my brother who is gripping my wrist, my clawed hand inches from his face. “Suzie,” Ethan says again. “It’s me.”

I wrench my hand out of his grip and press my hands to my eyes. “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry, sorry.”

I hear him shift on his feet but keep my hands over my eyes. Then he says, “Frankie called.”

At his tone I drop my hands from my face. Outside the windows the sky isn’t yet bright, but it’s well past dawn. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

My brother looks older in the morning light, dark shadows under his eyes. “Somebody trashed the bar last night.”

“But Gus was there,” I say. When Ethan hesitates, something cold forms in my gut. “Is he—?”

“He was hurt pretty bad,” Ethan says. “He’s in the hospital. But he’s alive.”

I pace across the den, back and forth, the movement allowing me to think, to remain relatively calm. “Tell me what happened.”