I end the call and sigh. In the kitchen, I find another lantern on the counter, light it, turn up the wick. I want it light in here. Crossing to the sink, I open the curtains. Lightning flickers above the trees to the north. A cool breeze wafts in, and I smell rain. The storm would be perfect cover for a home invasion. I go to the living room and pull open the curtains. I want him to see me. An Amish woman staying up late to mend trousers and socks or maybe work on a quilt. Her family is already in bed for the night. The doors are unlocked. They are the perfect victims.

“Come on, you son of a bitch,” I whisper. “I’m waiting. Come on in and get me.”

It had been about forty years since Tomasetti had a temper tantrum, but he felt one coming on now. He wanted to break something. Preferably, Kate Burkholder’s pretty neck. Goddamn woman cop. What the hell was she thinking trying to pull off a dangerous sting with nothing more than a couple of cops to back her up?

But Tomasetti already knew the answer. He’d spelled it out for her over the phone. This wasn’t about justice. It was about retribution. He ought to know. Two and a half years ago he’d killed a man in the name of revenge. Then he’d taken it a step further and framed a career criminal—a second man who’d been involved with the murders of John’s family—for the crime. Tomasetti hadn’t felt a goddamn thing but satisfaction.

Yes, John Tomasetti was a master on the subject of payback. He’d destroyed his career. Nearly finished off what was left of his life. All in the name of retribution under the guise of justice. What a goddamn joke.

He’d been pacing the house for an hour now, but it wasn’t helping. The place was a dump. Empty. Like nobody lived there. That’s how he felt inside. No one’s home. No one who cared, anyway. The problem was, Tomasetti was beginning to care, and that was one place he didn’t want to be.

He looked down at the tumbler in front of him and a wave of self-loathing swept through him. Picking up the glass, he hurled it into the sink as hard as he could. Glass shattered. Shards scattered like pieces of ice. He could smell the whiskey from where he stood. He could still taste the sour tang of it in his mouth. Feel the warm buzz of it running through his brain.