I’m sure Hannah knows all of this. Like I said, the problem isn’t the warrant: the problem is that if Hannah knows about the warrant, then she probably knows a lot more. If she dug deep enough to speak to someone in LA’s robbery division, which is what she would have had to do to get this outdated warrant, then she probably knows about a lot of the crimes I’m suspected of committing.

And if she writes about any of it, then Marco will find me.

Last time, I’d surprised Marco when I’d refused to show him the diamonds. Now he’s had two years to think about that scenario, to reconsider how he would handle the situation if given a second chance. The next time he sees me, I won’t be able to refuse. He’ll kill me no matter what.

I take a drink from my soda and say, “Can we walk along the beach? I don’t want to talk in here.”

She looks out the window, as if considering whether she wants to be alone with me. There are plenty of people on the sand, out en masse for one of the last decent days of the season. Forecasters are predicting the temperature will plummet in the next couple days. It might even snow.

“Okay,” she says.

We walk along the path back toward my house. There’s a slight breeze, and it chills me because I’m still in my sweat soaked clothes. The breeze pushes Hannah’s hair back, and she walks without speaking.

“So, how much do you know?” I say.

“You’ve never been arrested,” she says. “There’s no valid warrant out for you.”

“But?”

“But you’re a suspect in a number of old robbery cases. Banks. Jewelry stores. Businesses that keep cash on hand. One detective I talked to called them ‘mid-level jobs,’ but he said your name had been kicked around in connection with the theft of some particularly valuable diamonds.”

I’m quiet.

“He thought you graduated to the big leagues,” she says. “Then you disappeared. They figured you were probably dead.”

“I would have liked it if they kept on thinking that,” I say.

We’re not far from my house now. I can see it. We’re going to be there before we know it, so I suggest to Hannah that we sit on a nearby bench.

“When you wouldn’t let me interview you,” Hannah says, “my editor asked me to find out more about you. It wasn’t too hard to find this stuff.”

“I should have used a fake name,” I say. “I thought if I didn’t have a bank account, didn’t use a credit card, paid cash for my rent, didn’t sign up for Facebook or anything stupid like that—I thought if I did all those things, I could fly under the radar.”