Vincent looked up and saw a woman in the door to the hallway. She was in a nightdress that reached her knees, and she was pointing a Glock at him, two-handed.

Delroy, still at the table, said, ‘Tasha, everything’s fine. But we need to be real careful now. Don’t shoot the man.’

Vincent said, ‘Everything’s all right—’

‘Put the gun down. Put it down.’

She had that wide-eyed look he’d seen in jihadists: drug- or fear-crazed, or maybe just wired on adrenaline.

Vincent waited, the stereo next door thumping, the phone buzzing in his pocket.

She had cover and a Glock 9, but she couldn’t shoot him—not while he had a shotgun to Page’s head. He hoped she knew that, too. He breathed in and then out through his nose, and when he spoke he looked her in the eye and tried to sound measured. Like despite the crazy tableau—broken glass and the shotgun and Page on the floor—this was all a rational endeavour.

Vincent said, ‘I’m not going to hurt anyone. I’m trying to help you.’

He saw the hesitation on her face—just an instant, but it was there—and he knew he had his chance.

Vincent said, ‘Your husband conspired in a thirty-million-dollar deal that got five people killed this morning.’

She was still pointing the gun at him.

Vincent said, ‘You see the news today? Five people dead up in Santa Barbara?’

The pistol’s aim dropped below horizontal.

Vincent said, ‘Terry’s part of it, and I’m trying to get him out. But he has to tell me what happened. I can’t get him out if I don’t know what the problem is.’

Delroy said, ‘Think it’s time for you to go now. This ain’t a road that leads to mending things.’

But the woman named Tasha said, ‘Terry, what’s he talking about?’

Page had his eyes closed, teeth gritted. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart. Put it down. Put the gun down.’

‘I’ve called nine-one-one.’

‘It’s okay. He’s not going to hurt anyone.’

Vincent looked down at him. He said, ‘You get it now, huh? I’m on your team. I can get you out of whatever you’re in. But you have to tell me who’s involved.’

‘That’s my job, Terry. We got this shit sorted, but don’t you listen to this man.’

‘Terry, what’s he talking about? What’s happening?’

Vincent saw she’d lowered the pistol.

Delroy said, ‘Terry, don’t you trust him. There’s a way out of all this, and he isn’t it. Look at him: just a recipe for making things worse.’

Silence from Delroy wouldn’t be a bad thing, but he didn’t want to dislodge them from this tenuous stability, tenuous calm.

Vincent held the shotgun upright in one hand and kept his eyes on Terry Page.