Tinsley had contemplated walking away, and under other circumstances he might have done exactly that. But she was an old client, and it didn’t serve his interests to make an enemy of her. But beyond that, something held him to these three people. A sense of history. Of unfinished business. It had been more than ten years since he’d entered this narrative. He felt an unexpected kinship with the son of Duke Vaughn, and it was important to see the boy through to his end.

The faint click of a light switch caught his attention. Was that humming? Singing? A TV or a man? The pipes hummed, groaned, and the inviting hiss of a shower came through the vent. Tinsley waited. The hiss changed, falling to a lower register—water on skin, not on tile. It was time.

Tinsley left his room and looked out over the parking lot. Jenn Charles and Duke Vaughn’s son were gone, leaving only the bitter man. He would deal with this one now while the opportunity presented itself.

Tinsley walked the eight feet to the next door and knelt as if to tie his shoe. It was a cheap motel with cheap locks—he could pick it with a Popsicle stick. He let himself into the room and drew his gun. No more interruptions. He had missed twice, and though there were extenuating circumstances in each case, Tinsley did not feel right about it. The natural course of things had been diverted like the damming of a river. And like a dammed river, Tinsley could feel nature aching to correct itself.

Apart from the glow of the television, the room was dim. The queen beds rumpled. The bathroom door ajar. The singing or humming had stopped. Tinsley moved through the room, listening for any change. He put his back to the wall of the short hallway outside the bathroom. It occurred to him almost too late that the sound the water made was wrong. It was the sharp hiss of an empty shower—water on tile.

Tinsley brought his arms up and partially deflected the crowbar away from his head. Pain lanced through his wrists, and the crowbar scraped across the top of his head. It burned like a striking match. His gun spun across the floor. Tinsley pivoted to better defend against the next blow. It would be hard to bring a crowbar around effectively in the hallway, and it should give him time to reestablish himself on an equal footing. Unfortunately, the bitter man had the same thought. The crowbar clanged off the floor as a fist caught Tinsley on the bridge of his nose. His nose had only just begun to knit back together after Pennsylvania, and the blow ruptured it again. He tasted blood as he fell.

The bitter man forced him to the floor with several well-placed blows. Tinsley appreciated their ferocity but also their precision. Such a thing was difficult to accomplish in tandem.