“It’s possible.” Rick shrugged. “I don’t think he’s the type, though. He always struck me as the kind of guy who wouldn’t run from a fight.”

Rick studied Frank’s face, hoping that his partner’s expression would betray some healthy fear at his warning. Instead, Frank’s bottom lip pushed up his top, giving him the look of an angry bulldog. His hands dove into his pockets.

He withdrew the gun in one fluid motion as he whirled toward the door. Before Rick could stop him, Frank pointed it at the floodlight and fired. The shot reverberated against the brick, turning the pistol’s pop into a shotgun blast. Glass rained down on the pavement. The alley went pitch dark.

“What did you do that for?” Rick yelled in spite of himself. He needed to be quiet. With luck, there hadn’t been a cop within earshot, and they could still make it back to the car without being charged with vandalism or, worse, attempted burglary.

“He needs to know,” Frank shouted back. “I’m done fucking playing. I want our money back, and I’m not going to sit tight until he spends it all trying to keep this shithole in the black—’cause there won’t be anything to recover then, even if the courts say he owes us. You can’t get blood out of a stone. We need to squeeze him now.”

Rick realized that both his hands were on his hips, the classic dad-scolding stance. But Frank wasn’t some kid he could shame into better behavior. “He’ll probably think this was an attempted robbery gone wrong,” Rick said.

“Then we’ll just have to do something that leaves no doubt,” Frank countered.

Rick heard footsteps and felt the thud of Frank’s shoulder bumping into his own.

“Like what?”

The fear in his voice was palpable. Rick guessed that Frank could hear it as well, because he turned around. The streetlamp beyond outlined Frank’s square body in light, casting his face in shadow. It was difficult to see, but Rick was almost certain that he could make out Frank’s expression. His partner was smiling.

CHAPTER TWELVE

IMANI

A door slam woke Imani. She gasped as though a pair of invisible hands had released her throat. Vaguely, she remembered retreating to her room to read the latest articles and commentary about Nate’s death. The coverage hadn’t revealed any additional facts about the case, though the army of online armchair detectives had included plenty of speculation about Melissa’s culpability and motives. Revenge for infidelity appeared to be the leading theory. No one had posted evidence of Nate having an affair, but his occupation was its own indictment.