“You sure didn’t,” Jonathan said. “And aren’t you awfully proud of yourself? I told you I’d kill you if you came here, but you did it anyway. And then went and saved me the trouble.” Jonathan swatted the empty pill bottle. It smacked the opposite wall with a plastic clatter. It bounced back and wound down in slowing circles between Roy’s pitiful, frayed boots.

This fucking day. Jonathan righted the vodka bottle from the floor where it had spilled some of what it had left to offer. The craving for a burning throatful of the stuff couldn’t vault the gross certainty that Roy had put his mouth on it.

Jonathan closed his eyes and tilted his head up against the wall. The hall lights were orange against his lids, almost like daylight. He sighed.

Roy might be dying. Probably was. In the hallway. What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

“Roy, in my father’s stuff, in all that junk I let you take, was there anything about where it all came from? Anything else about the painting?”

Roy’s head had fallen forward, boneless, chin to chest in a way that looked wrong.

“Hey!” Jonathan nudged him, and Roy flinched to a slightly firmer slump.

“Roy.” Jonathan shook him. “Roy! Wake up!”

Roy mumbled and groaned. Disjointed words tumbled out—haunting, high-pitched murmurs in a steady moan of broken-down old-man noises, like a radio grabbing things out of static. “Good . . . okay . . . she’s okay . . . fine . . . I will . . . I’ll get it . . . but . . . I . . . why is it like this?”

Shit.

Jonathan was back on his haunches again, then down to his knees, getting into Roy’s face, ignoring the rotting-fruit-and-rubbing-alcohol smell that trickled out on his shallow breaths.

“Roy, wait. Wake up. Hey!” Jonathan shook him, more gently this time, but faster. “Hey. Hey. Do you still have any of that stuff? From the garage? Is any of it out there in your truck?”

Roy rolled his head in a swinging negation, but didn’t open his eyes. “Doan know.”

“Not good enough.” Jonathan shook him and slapped Roy’s cheek, hard enough to sting, but not too bad. Not even close to what Jonathan wanted to do, but he reined in the rest. “Roy! There was a whole box of stuff. You took it all. Do you still have any of it?”

“Din’ take it. I worked for . . .”

“I don’t give a shit. Is there still stuff in your truck from back then?”

Roy finally looked at him again. His back was sagging more with each gravelly breath. “Did you know? Why . . . ?”

“Goddammit, Roy. Just tell me what you did with it.”

Roy arched up, pulling straighter. Eyes closed. They slid open again with a quivering effort. His lips barely moved. “No.”

“What?”

“No.”

Jonathan’s rage burned in his face, but his voice was quiet. “Don’t you say no to me, you useless piece of shit.”