Mitchell hesitated. Then he wiped his eyes and nodded. He flattened the wrinkled check on the desk, looked around for a pen, and said, “How much do you—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Hazard growled, snatching the check and shredding it. Then he grabbed Mitchell’s arm and steered him toward the door. “And ask Nico to teach you how to put on your fucking foundation next time.”

CHAPTER FOUR

JULY 1

MONDAY

9:57 AM

HAZARD HAD FOLLOWED MITCHELL back to his apartment; it was a unit on the top floor of a shiny new eight-story building, close to campus. As they rode up in the elevator together, Hazard said, “You didn’t move?”

“It’s hard to find an apartment.”

“It’s Wahredua. It’s not Manhattan.”

“I like this place.”

“I thought I told you to move.”

“No, you told me not to move.”

Hazard grunted.

“Should I buy a gun?” Mitchell said.

“That’s a definite no.”

“Can I borrow one of yours?”

“No more talking.”

When they got off the elevator, Mitchell led Hazard to his apartment. He checked his phone, tapped something, and whispered, “Ok.”

Hazard stopped him before he could open the door. Dropping into a squat, Hazard inspected the locks: a deadbolt, and then a lock set into the handle. Both had a few faint scratches, but nothing out of the ordinary; those scratches could easily have come from fumbling the key.

Hazard stood, held out an open hand, and accepted the keys from Mitchell. Then he pointed down the hall. Mitchell took a few springy steps back, hugging himself as Hazard slid the key home. Hazard drew the Ruger Blackhawk from its holster, stood to one side, and threw the door open; he heard it catch on the carpet, slow, and then stop. From inside the apartment came silence.

“Just a heads up,” Hazard said, keeping his voice conversational, although his heart was hammering in his chest. “If anybody’s hiding in there, now would be a good time to say something. I’m armed.”

The refrigerator clicked on; Hazard’s pulse roared into his ears, and he could barely hear the motor’s hum. Black spots swam at the edges of his vision. He was aware of his breathing, the shallow gulps for air, and he forced himself to draw in a full breath, and then another. It helped, but not much.

“Emery?”

He shook his head. He counted to three. He remembered running to the end of the high dive as a kid, one-two-three, and then he spun into the doorway, the Blackhawk low and ready. The black dots whirled in his vision.

He moved through the apartment, room by room, throwing open doors, yanking back the shower curtain. His breathing sounded like a whistle. When he cleared the last room, which was Mitchell’s bedroom, he slumped against the wall. Sweat soaked his back, and the black dots narrowed his vision to a tunnel. After ten breaths, he managed to holster the Blackhawk. After another ten, he pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could. He pictured a day on the beach. He pictured rolling onto his side and seeing Somers. He pictured that smile. After another ten breaths, he wiped his face and called, “It’s clear, Mitchell.”