Reece lived on the other side of Charlotte. His arrival took time. When it finally happened, the same guard led him down the corridor. “Your appellate lawyer is here.”

X had no appellate lawyer—he’d never leave prison alive—but he did enjoy the small fictions. “Wait upstairs.”

The guard turned and left. Behind him, Reece appeared as he always had: narrow-shouldered and thin, with a wisp of beard on a face that could be forty-five or sixty-five. Deep lines cut the corners of his mouth, and his skin had a chalky cast that X associated with a great-grandfather he’d known as a boy. That’s where any impression of agedness ended. Reece was as vicious and quick as any predator X could imagine. Over seventeen years, he’d earned enough money from X to buy mansions and fund a dozen retirements. There was no affection between them, but X knew what Reece could do, the things he liked to do. Of every fixer X had on the outside, Reece was the one he trusted most. Even so, X could not hide his frustration. “It’s not like you to be late.”

“I was out when the call came in. I left as soon as I got the message.”

“What time is it now?”

“Three a.m. I’m sorry. I truly would have been here sooner.”

“It’s fine. I’ve been impatient.” X accepted the excuse, nodding. “Any problems out there that I should know about?”

“Smooth as glass.” Reece slid his palm across an imaginary pane. He meant payoffs, threats, the parolee whose car they’d burned as a reminder to keep his mouth shut. “What do you need from me now?”

X told Reece what he’d learned from Willamette: the prison bus, the car, the people in the car.

“You’re sure it was Jason French?”

“Willamette was convincing.”

“You want me to find him?”

“Finding Jason is only the start.” X explained what else he wanted. He offered specifics, and Reece took a few moments to play it out in his mind. “Why does Willamette care about this girl?”

“Why does anyone care?”

“She’s brunette?”

“Young. Attractive.”

“I’m glad you called me for this.”

“I thought of no one but you.” That was true. Reece had certain desires that made him predictable. Supporting those desires made him dependable in a way that money alone never could.

“How soon?” Reece asked.

“As soon as possible.”

Reece removed a pen and pad, all business. “Can you confirm the plate number for me?”

X gave him the number again. “Sixty-six Mustang, maroon with whitewall tires and minor rust on two fenders.”

Reece jotted down the license number. “Give me her full description.”

X described the brunette as Willamette had. Facial features. Skin tone. Height and build. “He puts her age at twenty-seven.”

“What about the blonde?”

“Just the brunette.”