SEVENTY-SEVEN

SEVENTY-SEVEN

FOR A MOMENT, I think I'm dead — or will be any second. The barrel of his gun remains pressed against my neck, his eyes still on mine in the rearview mirror.

"You don't seem surprised to see me," Silas Renfrow says to me. "Are you starting to figure things out? Or have you known all along?"

I can't yet speak, my breath whisked away by the rush of adrenaline, the abject terror of seeing those eyes staring into mine.

I figured out enough last night, researching a man and a case I'd put behind me — the prosecution of Michael Cagnina. I figured out David's identity, and I knew he wasn't Silas Renfrow, that he couldn't be a cold-blooded killer.

"Put your hands on the steering wheel, Marcie, so I don't have to keep this gun pointed at your head."

I do it quickly, wrapping my trembling fingers around the steering wheel. I'd do anything to get that gun away from me. The gun that shot David and may have killed him.

Silas removes the gun from my neck but stays close, leaning forward from the back seat.

"I should've figured he'd try to find you once he rejoined the world as David Bowers," he says. "He'd ask me about you after you'd come for our attorney-client visits. His cell was down the way from mine. He couldn't hear us, but he could see you. He thought you were beautiful, of course. But he said you seemed ‘formidable.' He was positively smitten with you, Marcie."

I try to picture it — David in a cell of his own, looking through the eye slit at me while I sat outside Silas's cell, talking to him.

"But enough about the past," he says. "Let's talk about now. I couldn't help but notice you just bought a bunch of duffel bags. And I see you've got a ring of safe-deposit-box keys around your finger. You're moving the money, aren't you?"

"I … no … no …"

"There's no time for games," he snaps. "I know David has that money. Don't play dumb with me."

"I …" I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. I'm trapped, cornered, without any help —

"Tell me his name," he says. "Tell me your husband's real name. Because I'm getting tired of this wide-eyed innocent routine of yours. And if Michael Cagnina doesn't get his money back, your entire family is dead. Instead of a dead rat in little Lincoln's trick-or-treat bag, I'll put a bullet in —"

"Wesley!" I shout, bursting into tears, losing it right there in the car in front of a man who would kill me without hesitation. "My husband's real name is Wesley Price. The accountant for Michael Cagnina. The man who risked everything to take down a mobster!"