Prologue

Merrydale, Louisiana

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 16, 4:45 A.M.

TWENTY-THREE YEARS AGO

THROUGH HIS BINOCULARS, ALAN WATCHED the man emerge from the house at the end of a private drive. It was a nice house with a dark green door and a tidy front yard. The man's hands had been full when he'd entered. Now they were empty, save for the satchel he now carried.

It's done.

The magnitude of Alan's actions hit him like a punch to the gut, a wave of shame that made him sick to his stomach. But it was too late to wonder if he'd done the right thing.

It's done.

The man he'd hired to do this terrible thing threw one last look over his shoulder at the house before putting the satchel into the trunk of a plain brown sedan.

Payment for a service rendered.

Then the man got into the sedan and drove toward the main road.

Setting the binoculars on the empty passenger seat, Alan flexed his fingers in the leather gloves he'd worn to keep from leaving fingerprints. There was no one with him tonight. No one to witness what he'd already done. Nor what he was about to do.

When the brown sedan turned onto the main highway, he followed the man. He needed to get far away from here to accomplish what he needed to do. Far away from that nice house with the green door and the tidy front yard.

For an hour he drove, biding his time. For an hour the brown sedan seemed not to know he was following, and that was…unsettling. The man should suspect. He should notice. He'd seemed much smarter than this when they'd spoken on the phone, even though the voice distortion device the man had used had made it hard to detect details.

The man's name was John Robertson. Or so he'd claimed.

Alan didn't believe that, but it didn't really matter.

Finally, John turned the brown sedan into the nearly empty parking lot of a grocery store. The store was closed for the night and a few of the tall streetlights were burned out, creating pockets of darkness. John drove into one of those dark pockets, stopping next to a silver Lexus. He got out of the brown sedan and opened the door to the Lexus with his key.

John was switching from his job car to his actual car.

Alan had expected as much. He'd done something similar, after all.

Turning off his headlights, he let his own car glide to a stop on the other side of the brown sedan and got out. Finally , John looked up, surprise on his face before it changed to fear as he reached into his pocket.

Don't hesitate. Just do it.

Before he could change his mind, Alan lifted the gun in his hand and fired over the top of his car, thankful that he'd spent the extra money for the silencer. It wasn't silent, but it was quiet. And there was no one around to hear either the little pop or John's groan of pain.

He looked around and, still seeing no one, rounded the brown sedan to where John lay on the asphalt, blood spreading to soak the front of his shirt. Wide eyes stared up at him and Alan stared back, committing John's face to memory. It was the least he could do.

"Help me," John whispered. "Please. Help me."

"I'm sorry," Alan said softly, because he was. Sorry that any of this had happened. Sorry that he'd been forced to do such terrible things. "I'm so sorry."

"I have a family," John begged. "A wife. Babies. My son is sick. I have to get home to him. Take my money. Take my car. Just…help me."

But he couldn't. He simply couldn't.

Finish what you came here to do.

"I'm sorry." Drawing a breath, Alan pointed the gun at John's head and fired twice more.

He had to make sure John was dead. Had to make sure John couldn't live to tell.

Two men can keep a secret if one of them is dead.

It was a truth he'd have to live with for the rest of his life.

Leaning over John's body, he pressed the trunk release and retrieved the satchel. He would never spend the money, but he couldn't leave it. Couldn't leave anything that could trace back to him or what he had done.

Then he got back into his car and drove away, leaving John's body where it had fallen.

He drove the long way back to New Orleans, to the north of Lake Pontchartrain, exiting the interstate in Slidell to park the car he'd been driving on the side of a deserted road, keys left in the ignition. With any luck, someone would steal it before dawn.

Then he gathered the satchel, his binoculars, and his gun and walked a mile to where he'd parked his own car. He got in and drove home.

Forgive me, Lord. I didn't have a choice.

It was done. And God willing, he'd never have to do anything like that ever again.