I laughed again, rubbing my eyes. I wanted all that gin in my veins. I didn’t want to have to think about anything else for a long, long time. Thinking, and doing, had gotten me nowhere anyway. Ellen, Carrigan—none of it would matter, in the end. Lou would hate me. There was no way she wouldn’t hate me.

So I told her. Everything. Starting with Ellen at the St. Leo and finding the cash from the Lady—or Eve fucking Dawes—and holding it for her. Well, meaning to hold it for Lou. Slipping Ellen the bribe from the police. I didn’t have any other option. I hadn’t known what was going to happen. I told her everything about Carrigan and Jackal’s help—I didn’t figure it would hurt, now that he’d skipped town. I told her I had one last shot to give the cops the cash from Carrigan and the Lady’s name or else I’d be on the hook for the murders. And after everything, that money was mine—ours. Our only option was to go. Now. It was only a matter of time before the Lady knew I had turned on her, before the cops came for us.

Lou’s eyes popped when I mentioned Carrigan, but I pushed on, telling her how I’d gotten the money from him, $75K (even then, it was hard not to feel a little proud of it, and I checked Lou’s face to see if she was proud of me, too, maybe a little, underneath everything), which would be more than enough for us to run away together.

“And, Lou,” I said, finally. “I know.”

Lou’s eyes turned wary. “You know?”

“About Lafferty. Mr. Alibi.” Lou’s face shifted, almost relieved, and I went on, “It was a smart move. But don’t you get it? He won’t help you now. Not anymore.”

Lou’s mouth opened and then closed. She nodded. “Of course, you’re right. That’s over.” She stared at me for a moment and then she said, her voice hushed, “You took Mitch Carrigan.” I couldn’t tell if she was proud or angry. “You really did it?”

“I know,” I said quickly. “I wanted to do it with you, Lou, but it was my mess to fix.”

Lou nodded, not looking at me. “Did you tell the police . . . I mean, did you mention Rita Palmer’s name?” Lou nibbled on a fingernail, her gin untouched in front of her. She didn’t like gin, I remembered, had told me once it tasted like Christmas tree piss.

Maybe she was trying to get me drunk.