The taxi pulled up in front of Aidan’s house slightly after ten P.M. Aidan didn’t step out right away. He took his time counting out a wad of wrinkled bills, while covertly studying the surrounding bushes for signs of trouble. Was that hulking shadow Mrs. H.’s rhododendron or another goon from Vito’s garage? What about that dark spot over to the right? More photogs hidden in the trees? What about the entire darkened block, yawning behind him. Maybe somewhere, out there, Jason Jones was ready to finish him off.

Screw it. Just move.

Aidan tossed twelve bucks at the driver, grabbed his laundry, and scrambled from the cab, house keys clutched in hand. He made it up the walkway while the taxi was still idling in place. Aidan dropped the trash bags, jammed the key in the lock, and managed to twist the door open the first time, though his hands were trembling now, and he was so overloaded on adrenaline and fear he could barely function.

He could hear the taxicab revving up, pulling away. Gotta move, gotta move, gotta move.

He forced the door open, swinging the laundry bags inside, then using his leg to kick the door shut behind him, leaning against it for good measure while he struggled to work the lock, finally firing it home.

He sagged then, sliding down the door, overcome with relief. He was still alive. No goons had jumped him, no neighbors were picketing his front door, and no photogs were peeking into his windows. The lynch mob had yet to arrive.

He started to laugh, hoarsely, maybe a tad hysterically, because, honest to God, he hadn’t felt this strung out since prison. Except he was a free man now—meaning, what was there to look forward to? When would he ever complete this time served?

He forced himself to stand, picking up his laundry, schlepping the bags down the hall. He needed to pack. He needed to sleep. He needed to get away from here. Become a new person. Preferably a better person. The kind of stand-up guy who could actually sleep at night.

He made it to the family room, dropping the trash bags on the floral love seat. He was just turning toward the bathroom, when he became aware of the wind on his face. He could feel a draft, floating into the tiny sitting area.

The sliding glass door was open.

Aidan realized for the first time that he was not alone.

D.D. was finishing up paperwork when her cell chimed at her waist. She recognized Wayne Reynolds’s mobile number, placing the phone to her ear.

“Sergeant Warren.”

“You have the wrong computer,” Wayne said. He sounded slightly breathless, as if he were running.

“Excuse me?”

“Got an e-mail from Ethan. Kid’s smarter than we thought. He sent Sandy an e-mail infected with a Trojan Horse—”

“What?”