The restaurant wouldn’t be a place for trouble. Too many people with cell phones. Too many security cameras. And all of it too buried in a shopping plaza on a Saturday to get out quickly.

Although Owen was certainly built for it, Jonathan didn’t figure him for a blaze-of-glory kind of guy. The Mercedes gave him away. Something in him liked living. No full-on nihilist kept his car that clean.

So it—if there was any it coming—would be before or after. It was the same problem, both ways. He was in real trouble if Owen followed him. The only thing Jonathan had after he turned over the painting was Owen’s ill will.

Buying him off seemed unlikely. Owen was very proud that he had all he needed. Even if Jonathan offered him every bit of what the Anningers were going to pay, it wouldn’t interest Owen Haig. And if Jonathan was going to do that, he might as well have given it to Marcell—

Jonathan grabbed up his phone. Did you really know she wasn’t dead?

His phone lit up immediately. He let it go four rings in before answering.

“Oh, Jonathan, what are you playing at? Things were going so well.”

“You know, I’m not sure they were. I didn’t have what you might call a strong sense of security in our arrangement. Not like I would’ve hoped.”

“That hurts my feelings.”

“I’m sure. But seriously, did you know she was alive? Because I didn’t.”

“I can only advise you to get to the point.”

“Something weird happened last night.”

“As I was saying . . .” Owen’s words were still clipped and cool, but the strain was coming through in a slightly strangled grip in his voice.

“She showed up at my house last night. None too pleased, but playing it ice-cold. I had to keep a straight face in front of my wife and stepdaughter, because as far as I knew, she was long since in the ground. I almost had a heart attack.”

Owen said nothing.

“Hello? Really? She was bleeding like crazy. Pouring. From her neck. How could I know she made it?”

Owen’s breathing was now coming through the handset with little huffing breaks forced in at the pace of hard footfalls. Owen was walking somewhere, and fast. He still managed an exasperated sigh.

Jonathan reworked the basic math of what had happened that night. “So you did know. You’ve known the whole time that Marcelline is alive.”

Owen regained his breath and his regular voice. “Where is she?”

Jonathan heard Owen’s car start in a walled roar, the engine noise ringing off cement. The car door slammed. A parking garage.