BooksBarbecue
Back No Going Back: a Novel Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Part 1
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. Part 2
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. Part 3
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. Part 4
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. Part 5
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. 55
  63. 56
  64. 57
  65. 58
  66. Part 6
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. 69
  78. 70
  79. 71
  80. 72
  81. Acknowledgments
  82. About the Author
  83. Also by Sheena Kamal
  84. About the Publisher

“His name is Peter Vidal,” says Nolan. “He’s a lawyer. Married into some money a while back. Then, lucky for him, the broad died. That’s his boat we’ve been watching.” He pauses. “You wanna know something, lady? I don’t give a damn who you are. You could roll up on Vidal tonight, for all I care. Question him all you want about Fang. I bet he knows something. Guys like Fang were always protected by their lawyers who knew enough about their operations to make sure they never got any time for what they did.”

He jerks his head in the direction of the club. Then grips the railing tight.

“You know what bugs me the most about Vidal? His shoes. I can always see my face in that shine. Yeah, I’d bet he’s never worked rough a day in his life. Every time he comes to those events, he’s got different shoes on, and they all scream money. Guys like that, they don’t know what it’s like to freeze your balls off watching doors, killing yourself doing hard labor. They’re criminals, too, just a different class of them. Those assholes deserve the swift hand of justice, and I hope to God you’re it.”

For a second, he looks at me like I’m some kind of warrior saint. But he’s got the wrong sister.

I hand him one of Leo’s cards I lifted from the office to keep from having to speak. In case he remembers anything else. He barely looks at me when he takes it. It’s too cold to be standing here by the ocean, but he doesn’t seem likely to move anytime soon. This is why I’m the one to leave first. Wondering if I’m the instrument of his vengeance or if he’s the instrument of mine.

When I reach the gangway leading to the marina, I look around.

Peter Vidal is long gone.

Part 2

15

When I close my eyes the pulse of Detroit comes back to me. A man’s hands on a guitar, his mouth in front of an old-fashioned condenser mic. He takes a deep breath, fills his diaphragm with air, and then his lips pucker as if he’s expecting a kiss.

Instead, a hymn escapes.

He warms up to “Amazing Grace,” and so do I. We’re singing together now and I’m in my head voice, a tone I haven’t heard out of my mouth since I was a kid in youth choir. Buck-toothed and scrappy but with a voice like a lounge singer just months away from a lung cancer diagnosis.