“What about the house? Your job?”

“I’ll find a new one. We can sell long-distance. We could rent instead of buy, use fake names-”

“How do we get a fake ID? How do we get jobs or open a bank account without a social security number? I don’t know how to do those things. Plus” – she shrugged – “this is our home. Sara lives here. Our friends.”

He sighed. Nodded.

“There has to be a way,” she said. “This is our life. This can’t be the way it goes. It’s not right.”

“Not right?” He snorted. “Let’s agree on one thing, okay? Let’s stop playing the fucking victims. We took the money. That changed everything.”

“Still. There has to be a way.”

“I don’t see it,” he said. “And even if we get through this, we’re not in the clear. We still have to deal with-” He went ramrod, eyes widening.

“What?” She looked at him, then over her shoulder, just to make sure someone hadn’t come in. “What is it?”

Tom stared straight ahead for a long moment, eyes squinting the way they did when he was working something out. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, brooding.

He said, “I’ve got an idea.”

WHAT CAME FIRST WAS EXHILARATION, a rush of energy. Like solving a brainteaser, that moment when something clicks, and you realize that the way two brothers could be identical and yet not be twins was if they were triplets. A new way of looking at a familiar problem.

He tested it, probed with his mind, thinking What if this and What about that. It seemed solid. Not bulletproof, but solid. Certainly a safer plan than anything they had on the table already.

Anna said, “What is it? Tell me.”

He did. Speaking the words made it more real, not entirely a comfortable feeling. He watched Anna, saw her eyes narrow, the tiny crow’s-feet appearing. When he was done, she said, “I think that would work.”

“I don’t know. Like Jack said, this isn’t our world. Maybe we should just go to the police.” Tom closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. The darkness felt safe, like huddling under blankets on a snowy night. He made himself open his eyes. “Thing is, if we do this. I mean… What are we if we do this?”

“Alive.” Anna spoke quietly. “Free.” She cocked her head. “Rich.”

“Oh, forget the money.”

“Really, Tom? Forget the money?” An edge sliced her former softness to ribbons. “You don’t care if we have to declare bankruptcy? Lose our house? If we can’t have a child, a family? Have to hire a lawyer, go to court, see our pictures in the paper? If we have to spend the next ten years digging ourselves out? I’m getting a little tired of you making it sound like this was my idea. We decided together. Nobody talked you into it.” She shook her head, blew a breath. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer. “If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t take it either. I hate this situation. I’d give up the money in a second to get our old life back. But that is not an option. It’s just not. So either we can be strong and come through this to a better place, or we can panic and lose everything.”

“If we do this, a man is going to get killed.”

“A bad man.”

“How can you be so okay with it?”

She shrugged. “I’m just trying to be realistic. Jack isn’t a nice guy. You tried to stab him this afternoon, and nobody would tell you that was wrong.”

“I know. And believe me, I wouldn’t shed tears if he died. It’s just that planning it out ahead of time seems… evil.”

She was silent for a long time. Finally she said, “We’re not evil people, baby. We’re just in over our head.”

He could hear the buzz of traffic, faint through the double-paned glass. Cars heading north, cars heading south. Thousands of lives being lived, choices being made. No way to know which ones would end up meaning everything.

Tom said, “Pass me the phone.”

He’d given the business card to the detective, but he remembered the number. Some things made an impression. One of them was having your life threatened by a drug dealer. He dialed, pressed Send. A bass voice rumbled through the phone, not the guy in the suit. “Yeah?”

“I need to talk to…” He hesitated, realizing he didn’t even know the name. “This is Tom Reed. He-”

“Hold on.”

There was the muffled sound of conversation blocked by someone’s hand. Then a familiar voice came on the line. “Mr. Reed. Do you have what I asked for?”

“I tore my house apart. Top to bottom. What you’re looking for isn’t there. I’m sorry.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“I know. But I have the answer to the question you asked,” Tom said. “Yours. I’m on your side. And I can prove it.”

“How?”

“By telling you where to find Jack Witkowski.”

There was a long pause, and then the voice said, “Smart man.”

ANNA SAT ON THE EDGE of the bed and watched her husband negotiate murder.

Tom’s eyes were rimmed in black, but his voice was steady and his words carefully chosen. Despite everything, he was still strong. She felt a flush of love, and something else. Pride? Maybe it was wrong to feel pride in her husband’s ability to hold his own against criminals. If so, she didn’t care. It was the two of them against the world. Popcorn morality could wait. Perhaps one day she would agonize over what they were doing to Jack Witkowski. Perhaps it would haunt them both. But she doubted it.

Tom said, “I’m not going to tell you that.”

He said, “I’m on your side, but I’m not an idiot.”

Then, “That will work.”

Finally, “Tomorrow morning.”

He closed the phone, then opened it again long enough to stab the power. When it beeped off, he set it on the windowsill, then leaned back into the chair, a mod blue thing, boxy and too large. He put his arms on the armrests, then closed his eyes and rolled his head back. “He wants to meet for breakfast.”

“He’ll do it?”

“He was excited. I think he’d rather this than get his dope back.”

“And you think he’ll leave us alone afterwards?”

“I think so. He seems… professional. I’m sure he believes we don’t have the drugs – I mean, why would we lie about that? Not like we can sell them on the street corner. Plus, we’re white, educated, employed taxpayers. He kills us, it’s going to be investigated. Can’t see why he’d want that. Besides, after we help him…” He ran a tongue across his lips.

She finished his sentence in her head. Just to see. There was a twinge, definitely. A momentary regret. But most of the emotional turmoil she was swimming through had more to do with fear. Fear that it wouldn’t work, that something would go wrong, that Tom would end up hurt. Measured against that, the twinge of moralitywas a trickle against a tidal wave. Who wouldn’t put their loved ones ahead of everything else? “So what now?”

He rubbed at his forehead with his good hand. Shrugged. Said, “Want to see if there’s anything good on TV?”

THEY’D LEFT THE CURTAINS OPEN, and the faint reflection of city lights swam on the darkened ceiling. Tom had looked at the clock two minutes ago, knew that it was just after three, but felt a powerful urge to look again. Didn’t.

The pain in his hand synced to his heart, his fingers swelling and shrinking with every beat. He remembered one time talking to a doctor about stomach problems, the doc asking him to rate the pain on a scale of one to ten, which he’d found strange. How would you know what pain really was? Couldn’t it always get worse? That was the way of life. You thought you understood things, had a grip on what was good and what was bad, and then wham, something came along that redefined your spectrum.

“Are we greedy?” He spoke to the darkness.

After a moment, she said, “For taking the money?”

“No. Yes.” He stared upward. “Not just that. Are we greedy people?” A car horn sounded outside, muted by the glass into a faint and ghostly wail.