Just what was in Donatti’s best interest?

Decker took out a small bottle of Chivas and took a stiff drink. For dinner, he had eaten a tasteless vegetarian sandwich made with stale bread. It was atonement for eating so much meat yesterday night. He was trying to help his stomach out. Instead, the supposedly light food was sitting like stone in his gut.

Another drink just to soothe the nerves.

He was completely disoriented: a friggin’ sitting duck. Why the hell hadn’t he taken the piece that Donatti had offered him? But even that could have been a setup.

You take the piece, and then I’ll have a reason to shoot you.

With C.D., Decker just didn’t know. Donatti had talked about Decker swallowing, just as he had for eight years. Was this meeting staged? Was it masking a final act of revenge that had lain dormant for years, turning over in a cold, cruel mind?

Eleven-fifteen.

Decker took another swig of booze.

Fifteen minutes passed, producing nothing but hard shivers down his spine and numbness to his toes.

He’d wait until the witching hour. Then… that was it.

Five minutes before midnight, Decker saw it—an approaching, silent shadow. No car in his view; Decker hadn’t even heard any faraway engine sounds. He wondered how the shadow had gotten here so quietly. Did it walk on tiptoes, or had Decker’s mind wandered so he hadn’t noticed obvious noise?

His nerves shot into overdrive as he bent down to pick up the tire jack—heavy and cold in his grip. Slowly, the shadow took shape, Donatti materializing through the mist. He was dressed in a woolen overcoat, with gloves on his hands. He was literally dragging a package behind him—a small, frail thing swathed in a baggy coat. Her hands were wrapped in knitted mittens, but there were holes at the fingertips. She appeared like a toddler next to Donatti’s massive frame. Even at a distance, Decker could tell that she was crying, sobbing to him, begging him.

“Please don’t make me go back.”

“No one is making you go back.”

“Please don’t make me talk—”

“He just wants to see you—”

“No, please, no!” She was clutching Chris’s arm, her nails digging into his coat. Strands of long, matted hair stuck to her wet face. He continued to lug her closer, and Decker took a few steps out to meet them. At that point, Decker saw that she was shaking harder, absolutely trembling with dread, barely able to support her own weight under bent knees.

Decker stopped advancing. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Stay where you are.” He studied the girl. It appeared to be Shayndie, but with it being so dark and with her face obscured, Decker just wasn’t sure. Donatti halted his footsteps and the girl immediately buried her face into Donatti’s ribs, just under his armpit.

“She’s obviously comfortable with you,” Decker remarked.

“What can I say?” Donatti answered. “Natural charm. Shayndie, just answer this man’s questions and we’ll go back—”