The scent of that morning's burnt toast mingled with the stink of old garlic and bad cheese, the remnants of a thousand meals previous tenants had prepared here. The sound of his footsteps joined the noises beyond the thin walls. A slamming door. A distant TV. The traffic out front. He paced past the gouged and discolored laminate countertops, past the stovetop grimy from decades of misuse, past the cheap, fiberglass table and its fake leather chairs. He swiveled at the wall, trying not to see the faded wallpaper, sure that if he accidentally touched it, his hands would come away dirty, and paced back. Maybe if he could think about something else, anything else. But despite the apartment's assault to his sense of aesthetics, all he could think about was Leslie.

He hadn't loved her. Hadn't cared at all about her. He'd found her because he believed her sister had Charles's money. He'd convinced her he loved her, convinced her that all that stood between them and their eternal happiness was the money Marisa had stolen. They'd been fiddle-farting around about how to get the money from her when Leslie'd phoned him one day and announced they had to move soon. She'd seen a Pod in the reporter's driveway. If Boyle moved, Leslie might never be able to find her sister. They'd cobbled together a plan and set all this in motion. Leslie had been as desperate for that money as he had. Or maybe she'd just wanted to please him.

But she'd gotten cold feet. Started worrying maybe her sister was telling the truth.

He hadn't wanted to kill Leslie. Not just because now he had to take care of the kid. Not just because he hadn't yet gained access to her overseas account. Yeah, he knew Leslie had stolen the firm's money. He'd still been figuring a way to get his hands on it.

He looked at his hands, remembered what they'd done. The blows. The knife. He hadn't meant to do it. He'd never be able to undo it.

To bring her back. To get the cash.

Whatever.

Leslie's money was lost to him. She was dead. Now, more than ever, he needed to find Charles Gray's money.

At least Leslie had paid off his gambling debts. A couple thousand here, a couple thousand there. She'd helped him.

He hadn't meant to kill her.

He punched the mustard-yellow refrigerator, and the pain in his fist traveled up his arm. Stupid move. He shook out his hand. The fist had already been bruised and cut from his fight with Leslie. And now the fridge was dented, too. The landlord would probably keep his security deposit.

As if that mattered.

What had he done?

He'd killed her.