I can see Amalfi’s pale lips working before he speaks. “There was a contract,” he says. His voice is weak. “You understand?”

“I know what a contract is, Mr. Amalfi. In my business and yours.”

“The contract was to issue a warning. A kneecap. Cripple him, but don’t kill him. I sent two men. Easy job.”

“Give me their names.”

“Hold on,” says Amalfi. “Let me finish. When they came back, they told me the contract had been changed to a hit.”

A hit. Just hearing the word makes me feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I turn away from the bed. My eyes are clenched shut as I picture Garrett’s final moments. Don’t cry, I tell myself over and over. Do not fucking cry! I turn back slowly. “I thought you were the man who gave the orders.”

“Somebody cut the chain,” Amalfi says. “Somebody above me.”

Suddenly, I realize why I’ve been summoned here. “You work with middlemen, cutouts. Isn’t that right, Mr. Amalfi?”

“Yeah. That’s how it’s done.”

“That’s how you’ve managed to stay out of that ugly prison down the road all these years.”

He nods. “I protected myself. I protected my family. I never did any time.”

“Okay. So what’s to stop me from having you arrested now for conspiracy to commit murder?”

Amalfi stares out the window for a few moments. “You’re an attorney. You know how long an investigation takes. By the time they bring charges and set a court date, I’ll be done.”

Now I understand. I squeeze the bed rail so hard, my knuckles turn white. I try to stay objective, use my left brain. Like Garrett taught me.

I lean in, close enough to smell his rotten breath. “You know who cut the chain, Mr. Amalfi, don’t you? And it was a violation of your code. That’s why you called me here. You didn’t call me to apologize or to wipe your soul clean. You didn’t call me here to ask for my forgiveness. You called me here because you wanted to tell me that you weren’t the one who gave the order to kill Garrett—and you know who did.”

“That’s right,” says Amalfi. “And you can put it in that book you’re writing.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m a dying man with nothing to gain by lying.”

“I’m listening. Say it, Mr. Amalfi. Say it! Tell me who ordered Garrett Wilson killed.”

“It was the man in the White House,” he says.

Holy shit. We were right. This noble First Gentleman act is just that—an act.

Suddenly, Amalfi lets out a load moan. He lurches on the bed. His hands claw at the covers. He gasps for air in loud, wet wheezes. Drool dribbles from the corners of his mouth. The men he sent out earlier come running in.