I wish to hell that Garrett had kept his work files on an external hard drive. But everything was on his laptop. And the laptop is gone—along with everything the First Gentleman told him. I know he kept his computer double-password-protected. But with the right tools, whoever has it might be able to crack it. Or maybe no one has it and it’s lying at the bottom of some lake.

At least it wasn’t hard to find an address for Leo Amalfi, the dying Mafioso whose name Dr. Graham gave me. Apparently, Amalfi doesn’t feel the need to conceal where he lives. It’s just down the road from the correctional center where Garrett interviewed John DeMarco.

I approach the house. If Amalfi has security, it’s not obvious. No guard dogs. Nobody watching except a statue of Jesus and two small stone lions with their eyes painted red.

I open the fence gate and walk through. The tiny porch is edged with a white metal railing. I ring the doorbell. The door opens. An elderly woman with a worried face nods and waves me in like she’s been expecting me.

“I’m Brea Cooke. I’m here to see Mr. Amalfi.”

The house smells like garlic and onions and antiseptic. The woman leads me to what looks like a dining room that’s been converted to medical use and leaves. A wrinkled, wasted man lies in a narrow hospital bed, staring out the window. In here, the medicinal smell is stronger. But it can’t mask the sickening odor of decay.

Under an arch at the far side of the room, several men are standing watch. Sons? Nephews? Bodyguards?

I step up to the bedside. “Leo Amalfi?”

The man in the bed turns his head. His eyes are rheumy and red. For a second, I’m not sure he sees me. Then he blinks and raises one hand, so thin and pale it looks like light could pass through it.

“You’re the attorney. And you’re late,” he says.

“I’m here now, Mr. Amalfi. I understand you have something to tell me.”

Amalfi glances over at the young men. At his look, they melt away down the hall, out of sight. Now it’s just the two of us.

“Before I begin,” he says, “if you bring cops into my house, I’ll turn silent as a statue. I’m speaking only to you.”

“Why? Why me?”

“I know it’s personal for you. I want to make amends.”

Why should I believe a single word this man says? If what Dr. Graham told me is true, he’s a liar and a killer.

And no one can make amends for taking the love of my life.

“Okay, Mr. Amalfi. Go ahead. I’ll be your confessor. Tell me what happened. Why did Garrett Wilson have to die?”