“Vanessa was a waitress in one of your restaurants the first time you met her,” I say. “Barely out of high school. Practically still a girl. You pursued her, for months. She turned you down. Again and again. But you just wouldn’t accept it. You started getting angry. Desperate. Doing a little digging. And that’s when you found out about her condition—and saw your chance.”

His stony façade begins to shift.

To that of a guilty suspect, realizing he’s in a corner.

He looks ridiculous, defeated, no longer dressed in fine clothes, no longer glowing from a man-made tan. He looks flabby, out of shape, pitiful.

“You learned your beautiful new employee had chronic cirrhosis of the liver,” I go on. “Since childhood. She needed a transplant, a lifetime of expensive medication. It would cost this poor girl a small fortune that you knew she didn’t have. So you offered to step in and cover it. Pay for everything. Even pay for a college education as your newlywed. But your actual price was even higher.”

Behind me, I hear Vanessa stifle a sob. Lucas grows incensed.

“I saw a woman in need,” he nearly shouts. “I gave her some help!”

“You gave her a pre-nup, you piece of shit,” I shoot back. “That says if she leaves you, she gets nothing. Except bills she can’t pay, treatment she can’t afford. She doesn’t love you, Lucas. She’s shackled to you. A divorce would cost her her life.”

His eyes start to well up with distress and humiliation. For once, he doesn’t have a bitter comeback. He simply hangs his head. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, sniffling and wiping away a tear. “I’ll set things right. I … I’m so ashamed.”

I turn back to Vanessa, who is blotting her own eyes.

“So?” I say softly. “Yes or no? Are you going to leave?”

“Leave the city? Or leave …?”

“Both,” I reply.

I hold out my hand.

Praying she reaches out and takes it.

CHAPTER 71

I’m woken up by a faint buzz from my phone. In the pitch black of this strange bedroom, I grope for it, groggy and still half-asleep.

I find my phone and check the screen. A text.

10-19. ONE HOUR.

It was sent from a blocked number.

I sit up in bed. Rubbing my eyes. I read it again, trying to make sense of it.

“10-19” is police radio code for “return to station.” One hour from now would be about 6 a.m.

But what the hell does it mean?

Is it a joke? A mistake? A trap? Who sent it to me? Why now?

It could be an old friend inside the NOPD who wants to share a tip on his turf. Maybe even Cunningham.

Or maybe it’s Morgan, trying to lure me out of hiding so he can arrest me for real.