He went straight to the bathroom and took off his windbreaker and shirt. Blood still seeped through the bandage and fabric of his sleeve, but the water-repellent feature of the jacket kept it from bleeding through. He dumped the contents of the CVS bag on the counter by the sink—a topical cream with lidocaine for numbing, an antiseptic cream to fight infection, and a packet of needles and spool of strong thread.

He applied the antiseptic on the wound, ringed the flesh around it with the lidocaine, threaded the needle, and then gritted his teeth as the pain increased with each self-applied stitch.

Twenty minutes later, he sat shirtless at his kitchen table with the fresh bandage showing no signs of bleeding. He poured a double shot of whiskey into a glass of Coke and attacked his burger and fries. The pain diminished to a dull ache. He knew what he needed most was sleep, but he had twenty million reasons to stay awake.

His cell phone vibrated. A text message:

RETRIEVED BAG. DISABLED TRACKER. DON’T BELIEVE CONTENTS SEEN. MEET TO HAND OFF?

Good news. Maybe the bills had gone undiscovered. But was returning the currency wise? Why should he run the risk now with a murder ratcheting up the stakes? Especially since the unexpected debacle with Jonathan Finch had potentially opened the door to millions. He would have to let them know the reason for the change in plans. Then admit the suspicions had been true. Jonathan Finch had a secret. A secret that explained why he’d dealt in cash. Norwood hoped Finch hadn’t taken that secret to his grave.

***

Lisa Draper pulled into Ethel’s driveway.

Before the Infiniti stopped, Ethel said, “That’s interesting.”

Lisa wondered if her elderly landlady ever found something that wasn’t interesting. “What?”

“Officer Tepper’s patrol car isn’t here. I believe that Toyota Camry belongs to Frank Mancini.”

Lisa and Jesse saw the white sedan at the curb. The detective wasn’t in it.

Jesse opened his door and swiveled to get out. “Maybe he has news.”

Lisa grabbed his arm to stop him. “Maybe. But let me walk with you. You could still be unsteady on your feet.”

“That’s a good idea,” Ethel agreed. “We don’t need to go back to the hospital.”

The three approached the house, Lisa cupping her hand under Jesse’s elbow for support, Ethel walking behind. As they neared the front porch, a slim Black man stepped out the door. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up and his blue tie was loosely knotted. The pinstripe of his pants suggested he’d left a suit coat inside.

“Can I help?” He came down the steps.

Jesse straightened his arm and made a show of moving away from Lisa. “I’m fine, Douglas. I have a hard head.”