Vincent glanced at her.

She leaned forward and slipped the gun out from under her shirt and returned it to the glove compartment. ‘I showed up here half prepared to shoot someone. And now we’re just going to drive away. It doesn’t feel right, does it?’

Vincent said, ‘He seems like a bright guy. He might know more than he’s admitting. If the cops pressure him, he might tell them something good.’

‘Yeah, but are we really going to do that? I’m not sure he’s done anything wrong. Illegal maybe, but … well. Not necessarily immoral.’

Vincent said, ‘Going by what you said last night, it’s all about intention. So it depends what you think he had in mind. If this was all done in good faith, maybe he’s off the hook. More or less.’

Movement in the front window, and Vincent saw Forsyth cup a hand to the glass and look out at them. Vincent started the engine and reversed the Range Rover out of the driveway, pulled away slowly up the road.

He said, ‘It’s three hours back to LA. You’ve got plenty of time to think about it.’

Erin said, ‘Or we could stop at Malibu, rent a place for a few days.’

Vincent said, ‘Am I invited to that?’

‘Yes. In fact, I’d say you’re the reason that plan has so much appeal.’

He smiled. They were back on the winding stretch of road, pine trees to either side, a shack coming up on the left. Windows gone and the grass tufting up five feet high around it.

Erin said, ‘What do you think?’

Vincent said, ‘I can’t imagine anything better than going on vacation with you.’

‘No. I mean our friends back there.’

Vincent said, ‘I’m not sure they’ve done anything wrong, either. Other than break up a couple of marriages.’

Erin said, ‘Except if they’d called nine-one-one instead of going into hiding, maybe no one would be dead.’

‘I’m not sure you can hold them responsible for that. The murders, I mean.’

The road wound tightly through the pines, and they passed another house on their right: unpainted, and the beginnings of a second-hand car yard out the front. Vincent saw an old Crown Vic, a Ford Bronco, a door-less Impala, and a Prius parked down beside the house.

He braked.

Erin said, ‘What is it?’

Vincent put the SUV in reverse and rolled them back a few yards. He said, ‘What does that bumper sticker say?’

‘I can’t read it. Something about Hillary … “Don’t blame me I voted for Hillary.”’

‘I’ve seen that car before.’

Vincent pinned the gas, and the SUV’s front end settled low as it leaped backward, dust rising in front of them as Vincent retraced their route in reverse through the trees.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Just hold on a second.’