FORTY-NINE

FORTY-NINE

HE HAS HER. KYLE knows it. He can read it all over her face, no matter how defiant she tries to appear. She's like a boxer taking blow after blow and not fighting back.

"Tell you what I don't get yet," he says. "Why is Cagnina screwing with your boyfriend now? What beef does he have with Silas? Or, asking the same thing a different way — why is Silas hiding from Cagnina?"

Camille is still putting up her best front, but the look of resignation, if not outright defeat, is all over her. She brushes away a strand of hair and looks out over traffic.

He's not without sympathy here — she's pregnant, for Christ's sake, and David is obviously the father — but he doesn't have time for sympathy. If the mob has come to Hemingway Grove, he needs to know.

"I mean, from my view, Camille — you'd think, after Silas killed all those witnesses against him, Cagnina would want to pin a medal on Silas's chest. But instead, he's screwing with him. Toying with him. All that shit he's pulled. Like he's trying to prompt him or flush him out. He's trying to do it under the radar, low-key, subtle. The mob isn't usually known for its subtlety."

That actually prompts a brief smile, at least a relaxation of her expression. And with that, apparently, a shift in her focus, as if she's shaken out of a trance.

"I have to go," she says. "I can't help you. Talk to David Bowers if you have questions about David Bowers. I'm sorry."

"No." Kyle steps in her path. "This has to stop before there's violence. You're pregnant, Camille. Do you really want violence right now? Tell me I'm right. Or tell me where I'm wrong. Tell me what I'm missing. Tell me something before it's too late."

"I'm … I'm sorry, Sergeant. I have to go. I'm sorry." She pushes past him and heads into the building.