Granville tagged Simon Vartanian young, but even then Charles had seen the insanity in the boy. Then Simon had been proclaimed dead by his father. Simon hadn’t been dead, of course, only banished. It was Judge Vartanian’s way of neutralizing the impact of Simon’s bad deeds on his own judicial career. The Judge told everyone Simon had been in a car accident. He’d even had some stranger’s body buried in Simon’s grave. And standing by Simon’s grave back then, Charles had been relieved. Simon had his uses, but given long enough, he would have brought Granville down.

When Granville tagged Mansfield, he’d been optimistic. But Randy Mansfield hadn’t become half the man his father had been.

As for Rocky, she wasn’t insane or worthless. However, she had a softness, a pathos that was a definite liability. And now she knew their secrets. She knows my face.

If Bobby doesn’t eliminate her, I’ll have to.

Atlanta , Saturday February 3, 10:15 a.m.

“Wake up.”

Monica heard the hissed words and struggled to obey. Her eyelids lifted.

My eyes work again. She moved her arm, gratified when she felt the tug of the IV needle. The breathing tube is still in. I can’t talk. But I’m not paralyzed.

She blinked and a face came into focus. A nurse. Panic sent her pulse scrambling.

“Just listen,” the nurse said hoarsely, and Monica could see the woman’s eyes were red from crying. “They have your sister. I have a picture.” She shoved her phone in front of Monica’s eyes and Monica’s scrambling heart seemed to stop.

Oh God, it was true. It was Genie, curled into a ball, her mouth gagged, her hands tied. She was in the trunk of a car. She might be dead. Oh God.

“She’s alive,” the nurse said. “But they mean business, make no mistake. I was supposed to kill you, but I couldn’t.” Tears filled her eyes and she dashed them away. “Now my sister is dead. They beat her to death. Because I didn’t kill you.”

Horrified, Monica watched the nurse inject something into her IV and walk away.

Dutton, Saturday, February 3, 11:05 a.m.

I can’t do this,” Rocky said. “I’ll be caught.”

“You’re afraid,” Bobby said scornfully.

“Yes,” Rocky said. “I am. You want me to walk into the middle of the town and shoot Susannah Vartanian in the cemetery? In front of everyone?”

“There is anonymity in a crowd,” Bobby said. “Once you fire, you drop the gun. There will be so much confusion, you’ll be able to walk away.”

“That’s insane.”

Bobby grew very still. “I thought you trusted me.”

“I do, but-”

“You’ve shown fear at every occasion,” Bobby said harshly. “Yesterday at the bunker. With the nurse. If you plan to hide at every turn, I can’t use you.” Bobby’s brows lifted. “And Rocky, nobody just walks away from me.”

“I know,” Rocky said. If she refused, she’d die here. I don’t want to die.

Bobby was watching her. “You’re afraid. You’re a failure. You are of no use to me.”

Rocky stared at the gun Bobby pointed at her. “You’d shoot me? Just like that?”

“Just like that. If you have no more trust than this, after all I’ve done for you, all your life… You should be grateful. Yet you disappoint me again and again. I have no use for failures. I have no use for you. You’ve failed too many times. This was your opportunity to show me you’re worth saving. Worth keeping.”

Bobby sat calm, confident, and Rocky wanted to scream. Insecurity warred with fear. If she were cast aside, where would she go? She’d be alone. “Can I have a gun with a silencer at least?”

“No. A silencer is a crutch. You have to prove to me that you have the courage to be my protégée. If you are successful today, you’ll never be afraid again. That is what I need in my assistant. What I must have. So choose. Live and serve, or cower and die.”

Rocky stared at the gun in Bobby’s hand. Both choices sucked. Dying sucked more. And she was so damn tired of being afraid.

“Give me the gun. I’ll do it.” But when I fire, Susannah Vartanian won’t be the one to fall. You will. I’ll tell them who you are, what you’ve done. Then I’ll be free.

Dutton, Saturday, February 3, 11:35 a.m.

“Did anybody stay home?” Luke muttered. “Looks like the whole damn town’s here.”

“They are,” Susannah murmured. Standing in the cemetery behind Dutton’s First Baptist Church, she was flanked on one side by Luke, on the other by Al. Chase was somewhere in the crowd, watching, supported by ten plainclothes state cops.

“Do you see anyone that looks familiar?” Luke murmured.

“Just the same old people I grew up with. If you need running commentary, just ask.”

“Okay. Who was the preacher who did the service?”

“That would be Pastor Wertz,” she said softly, and Luke bent his head closer to better hear. He smelled like cedar again today, she thought, the odor of fire and death washed away. She took another breath, filling her head with his scent before turning her focus back to the cemetery in which she’d stood with Daniel barely two weeks before. “Wertz has been pastor since before I was born. My father thought he was a fool. That either meant he couldn’t be bought or that he wasn’t bright enough to play his games. Wertz doesn’t seem much different, except that his sermons used to be a lot longer. Today’s was barely twenty minutes.”

“He’s got a lot of them to do,” Al said. “Maybe he’s pacing himself.”

She thought of all the death inflicted by Mack O’Brien. “You’re probably right.”

“What about the older gentleman with the entourage?” Luke asked.

“That’s Congressman Bob Bowie.”

“His daughter was Mack O’Brien’s first victim,” Luke murmured, and she nodded.

“Standing beside him are his wife, Rose, and his son, Michael.”

“What about the thin, old man beside the son?”

“That’s Mr. Dinwiddie. He’s the Bowies ’ butler and has been since I can remember. The Bowies had live-in servants, and that made my mother jealous. She wanted a butler, but my father wouldn’t allow it. ‘Servants have big ears and wagging tongues,’ he’d say. He did too much business in the middle of the night to worry about a butler.”

“Anybody else I should know?”

“Do you see the older lady with big hair? She’s standing three rows back. That’s Angie Delacroix. She might be a good resource to talk to about Granville and anyone else. Angie owns the beauty shop. She knows everything that goes on in Dutton, and what she doesn’t hear, the barbershop trio see. That’s them, coming this way.”

Three old men had been sitting in folding chairs at the graveside. As one they’d risen and were now making their way across the grass.

“Barbershop trio?” Al asked as the old men approached. “Not a quartet?”

“No. There are always three, and they sit on a bench outside the barber shop all day and watch the world go by from nine to five, Monday through Friday. They take an hour for lunch in the diner across the street. They’re a Dutton institution. The old men in the town have to wait for one of the trio to die before a space on the bench opens up.”

“O-kay,” Luke murmured. “And I thought my great-uncle Yanni was weird for painting all the eyes of his yard statues blue. Which of these guys is Daniel’s old English teacher? He helped us with Mack O’Brien yesterday. He might be willing to give us information again.”

“That would be Mr. Grant. He’s on the right. The others are Dr. Fink and Dr. Grim. All three of them creep me out,” she murmured.

“With names like Fink and Grim, I can understand,” Luke said, amused.

“That’s their real names, too. Dr. Fink was my dentist. I still can’t hear a drill without panicking. Mr. Grant always talked about dead poets. He tried to get me to go out for theater. And Dr. Grim was my biology teacher. He was… different.”