Dumping the ashtrays, I noticed they were all American brands. Jack smoked a very specific brand – Irish, hard to find. He only resorted to American cigarettes when the need outweighed his distaste.

I stacked a couple of crossword puzzle books, and couldn't resist thumbing through them. Most were done. Surprising. I'd never known Jack to do crosswords. But then, I'd never known him to do anything that qualified as recreational.

A noise from the bathroom. I looked up to see Jack in the doorway, surveying the room, shaking his head.

"All cleaned up," I said.

"I see that."

He scratched his jaw, wincing as he hit a fresh shaving nick. His hair glistened from a quick shower. He wore the sweatpants from earlier, but had pulled on a T-shirt, showing lean muscled arms with no scars, no tattoos, no distinguishing features – those he added only with a disguise.

When Jack had started coming to see me at the lodge, I'd always presumed he was in disguise. He hadn't been. The darkness had been disguise enough, though it also had the effect of making him look younger, leading to a stellar foot-in-mouth moment when I first saw him in the light and commented on his aging techniques… only to realize later he hadn't been using any.

Like his arms, the rest of him – the visible parts at least – bore no distinguishing features. There was little distinguishing about Jack at all. Average build, average height. He had an angular face that couldn't quite be called handsome, with lines deepening by his mouth and between his eyes, threatening to become creases. His wavy black hair was shot through with silver. Midforties, maybe creeping toward fifty.

Jack's eyes were the only feature a witness might remember, not for any unusual color or shape, but for his gaze – that piercing, unnerving way of watching, as if tracking everything around him. Even that, though, he could turn off with a blink and retreat into unadulterated ordinariness. Perfect for a hitman.

"Evelyn thinks you should lie low with me for a while, at the lodge."

"Nah."

He hobbled to the bed. I resisted the impulse to help.

"So you're fine," I said as he sat.

"Yeah."

"All right, then."

I headed for the door.

"Shouldn't have called," he said.

I turned. "What?"

"Evelyn. Bothering you. Shouldn't have."

"She's concerned."

A grunt. He scratched his chin again. The conversation, such as it was, was over. I wanted to turn and walk out, made it forty-five degrees, then stopped.

"I have the room, Jack. It's a slow time of the year. One more guest wouldn't be a problem." I managed a small laugh. "Free housekeeping, if that's any incentive. And meals, of course. You've had Emma's cooking, and you know it's better than take-out pizza." I heard an edge of desperation creep into my voice and choked it back. "I'm just saying that the offer's genuine. Evelyn isn't twisting my arm."

"Nah."

He reached for the cigarette pack on the bedside table, as if I'd already left.

I made it as far as the door, hand on the knob.

"How's it going?" he asked.

I looked over my shoulder. "How's what going?"

A shrug. "Stuff. The lodge. The job. You. Things okay?"

"Everything's fine."

He nodded and struck a match. I waited five seconds. Then I left.

Self-delusion is grand, ain't it? I'd convinced myself I'd only wanted to see Jack, and make sure he was okay. Like when I'd started high school and told my mother I didn't expect a Santa stocking anymore. Of course I'd still wanted one. But if I'd expected my mother to get me anything she didn't need to, I'd been delusional.

I had continued to get stockings, but from my father, on the sly, so neither of us would have to deal with my mother's "you spoil her" tirades. I'd gotten them every year, even after I graduated from police college and moved to Toronto. Then the next year, there'd been no one to give it.

I hadn't seen my mother in three years. Or spoken to my brother in four. And now Jack… I was starting to sense a pattern. After Amy's death twenty years ago, my relationships with others had changed. I was still as sociable as ever, but it was like with my guests at the lodge. I gave generously; expected nothing; accepted nothing.

I'd say it's my personality. I'm a people-pleaser. But buried in that is the other side of the equation. If you take nothing, you owe nothing. Keep the account square.

Like Jack…

Only I would never let someone travel four hundred kilometers to help me out, then brush her off with a "nah."

As I backed out, a crack made my stomach drop as my foot smacked the brake. I twisted in my seat to look behind me. All was as clear as it had been when I'd shoulder-checked.

Another sharp rap, clearly now coming from the front end. I whipped around to see Jack, his open palm over the hood as he hobbled across the front of the truck, crutch under his arm.

He motioned for me to lower the window. I cranked it halfway down. He leaned against my door. Twenty seconds of silence passed.

"Yes, Jack?" I said finally.

"Could use a place. Lodge'd be good. I'll pay."

"You don't have to – "

"I want to."

"Okay." I rattled off the price. "That's a room, all activities, breakfast, dinner, snacks, and beverages. Lunch is available for ten more, eight for a picnic basket – "

"That's fine." If he caught the sarcasm in my recital, he gave no sign. "Probably be two weeks. That okay?"

I nodded.

"Gimme five minutes."

He stumped off. I opened the door to follow and help him pack, then forced myself to close it. Better to take a few minutes and figure out how I was going to swing this past Emma. I'd decided on a story, and was jotting notes in my "Sammi casebook," when Jack rapped on the driver's window. When I looked up, he beckoned me out.

I rolled the window down. "We have to go, Jack. I have work waiting. If there's a problem – "

"Gonna drive. Up all night. Should sleep."

Out of practice with Jack's habit of dropping pronouns – and any other words he deemed nonessential – it took a minute to realize he meant that I'd been up all night so I should get some sleep while he drove.

"Have you forgotten your broken ankle?" I said.

"Left foot. Truck's automatic."

"You aren't driving my truck with a cast on. It may be a piece of crap but – "

"Out."

I shifted into reverse. The truck lunged back.

Jack swore, eyed me, as if trying to figure out how serious I was, then cursed again, slung his bag into the pickup bed, and hobbled to the passenger side.

I used my real ID at the border. I suspect Jack wasn't thrilled with that, but if I was using my own vehicle, it was silly to pull a fake passport. I presumed his was fake. I didn't take a good look.

Jack didn't say much on the drive, maybe because I kept the radio cranked up. When I pulled over in Oakville for a washroom break and coffees, I came back to find him in the driver's seat. Arguing would have required energy, and I was asleep before we reached the highway.

When I woke up, we'd already gone through Toronto and were passing Whitby. I stretched, reached for my coffee, and found it cold and bitter.

"Got time for breakfast?" Jack asked.

I checked my watch. Almost eight. I needed to call Emma and explain, but with that explanation came the excuse for being as late as I wanted. I directed him off the highway and made the call.

I told Emma that Jack was my dad's cousin. When Aunt Evie called the night before, it had been about him, stranded in Buffalo with a broken ankle in the midst of a cross-country job-hunting move. He really needed a place to stay while he recuperated and Aunt Evie thought the lodge would be perfect.