What he didn’t find was the key to a safe-deposit box. A day planner, or a little black book full of phone numbers, one of them circled in red. A map with a spot marked X.

No drugs, and no clue as to where Tuttle might have stashed them. After three and a half hours, the only thing he was certain of was that whatever the man in the suit wanted, it wasn’t in this house.

THERE WAS ONLY ONE THING to do.

Tom noticed dirt under his thumbnail, and picked at it with the nail of his middle finger. He smelled sour, his dress shirt marked with sweat stains. The clock on the bedside table read just after five. Anna would be home soon. Home from babysitting the Monkey. That was always a delicate time for her; she loved the kid with all her heart, but seeing what her sister had that she did not, it was tough. Tended to leave her jaggy, on the edge of tears.

The man in the suit hadn’t given a deadline, hadn’t told him to have the “merchandise” in forty-eight hours. But why would he? He would have known Tom would rush right home and tear the place apart. Would have counted on it. He’d probably give him the night, maybe the next day. But there wouldn’t be any point in waiting longer. Either Tom could deliver or he couldn’t. Which meant that very soon, two dangerous men were going to come looking for something he did not have.

He took a breath, held it, blew it out. Tried to steady his thoughts. He was scared, absolutely, but it was more than that. Or beyond that, maybe. This whole situation felt surreal, and he was struggling for context. Trying not to just give in and go with it, hope that things worked out for the best.

He saw Andre’s smile again, wet lips and white teeth, and he stood up, walked into the hallway, rubbing at his neck.

All right. Go through it again. One more spin round.

The drugs weren’t here. And there was nothing that gave him an idea where to look. Worse, because he hadn’t mentioned the robbery, he’d painted himself into a corner. Been too clever. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now if he tried to tell the truth… Jesus: Our house was actually ransacked a couple of days ago. Sorry – didn’t I mention that?

He didn’t even have anything to offer; matchbooks and last month’s cable bill wouldn’t save their lives. He had nothing to give the man in the suit.

Wait. That wasn’t true. He had three hundred thousand dollars in a duffel bag. Tom stood in front of the bay window, looked out on the street. The money was a possibility.

Except, what happened when you gave a sack of cash to a killer? Maybe he’d shoot them just to clear the last ties. Or maybe he’d smile, say thanks, and leave. How the hell should Tom know? This wasn’t his world.

There was only one choice.

Tom walked out, leaving behind the faint smell of fire.

Climbed the steps, limbs heavy with the effort of the last hours. Unlocked his door, and was surprised to hear a short double beep. The new alarm system. Anna had left the code on his voice mail, and he keyed it in to the pad, thinking how it was funny that just yesterday this seemed like it would protect them. In the kitchen he poured a glass of ice water and drank it slow. Knew he was stalling, hoping that some other idea would occur to him.

But nothing would. Over an Italian beef sandwich, his whole life had changed. He was an amateur in a game whose rules he didn’t understand. All he knew for certain was that if he waited too long, the man in the suit would come back, telling tales of Genghis Khan and threatening everything Tom loved.

He set down the glass of water, took the business card from the drawer where he’d stowed it, picked up the phone, and dialed. After one ring, it went straight to voice mail. As he listened to the message, the tone deep and calm, he told himself that he was doing the right thing. Or at least the best thing he could see.

When he heard the beep, he said, “Detective Halden? This is Tom Reed. I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day, as you were leaving. We need to talk. Please call me as soon as possible.” He left his cell number, then hung up and leaned his elbows on the counter, head in hands, trying to imagine how to tell his wife that in order to save her life he had to destroy her dreams.

THE INTERIOR OF KAZE was designed in a style Tom thought of as space-age Zen: white walls, white tables, white light, minimalist plates and glasses. They’d ordered a bottle of sake, which the waitress had poured into a funky decanter that was a cross between a vase and a bong. Personally, he could take or leave sushi, but Anna could be buried in the stuff and chew her way out smiling. Tonight he needed all the help he could get in the smile department.

Or he would, anyway, once he manned up enough to say what needed saying. After he’d called the detective, Tom had stripped off his business clothes and hopped in the shower, made a plan as he sluiced grime off his body. After hanging out with Julian, Anna would come in tired and sad. So the first order of business was dinner, a good meal at a quiet corner table. A bottle of wine. Strike that. Two bottles. Then, when Anna was mellow with fresh yellowtail and bacon-wrapped scallops, soft with good booze, he would take her hand, and ask her to listen and not speak until he was done. Tell her that they’d been wrong about everything, that they were out of their depth. That they had made a very big mistake, and that now it was time to stop hoping to keep something that wasn’t theirs, and focus on surviving.

But Anna had thrown him. She didn’t so much walk in as float. Her eyes were bright and clear, no sign that she’d stopped halfway to cry. Instead of the usual quick hug and peck, she’d wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him tight as her lips parted, her tongue dancing against his, the swell of her breasts against his chest. The kiss lasted thirty seconds, and he was hard by the end of it. She’d given him a knowing smile, said, “Hi,” with Marilyn Monroe breathiness, then pressed her pelvis against him. “Did you miss me?”

“Always,” he’d said.

She laughed, said, “Yeah, yeah,” and stepped away with a smile. “Prove it. Buy me dinner.”

Her good mood had continued through the evening. She’d hummed while she changed from a T-shirt and jeans into a summer dress and flip-flops with silver bangles. She’d pulled her hair back into double ponytails, a style they joked was her Inga-the-Exchange-Student look. It had been a long time since he’d seen her so happy, so unequivocally in the moment. Knowing he had to smash that was like knowing he had to strangle a puppy.

The evening was warm, and they’d decided to walk the two miles to the restaurant. She was irrepressible, pointing at flowers and smiling at the smell of barbecue, talking about their nephew, describing how big he had gotten, how he giggled when she made funny faces. At one point, strolling down a row of well-tended bungalows, she’d looked at him sideways. “You okay?”

“Huh?”

“You’re kind of quiet.”

“I’m just… mellow,” he said. She accepted his explanation without comment, went on talking about Julian, and then about the summer night and their plans to get away for the Fourth of July, while he walked beside her, hating himself for the lie. He decided he would tell her right after they ordered.

But they’d started with martinis. Then appetizers. A short bottle of sake, and a first round of sushi. Another bottle, another round. Tom splurging as if an extra half-dozen pieces of nigiri could somehow make up for the loss of the money and their plans.

Now there was nothing but scraps of pink ginger on the bamboo plank, and he was trying to convince himself that they needed dessert. Some sorbet, or a cheese plate. She looked so lovely by the candle glow, features soft and eyes sparkling.