“It was my pleasure, Johnny. Dessert will be up in fifteen.”

“We’re done here, and we can handle getting dessert for ourselves. Someone will clean up. You’ve been cooking all day. Why don’t you take off.”

“No, let me finish out the service.”

“Angie.” Fitch took hold of her arm. “I insist. Pete’s waiting in the yacht to take you back.”

For a moment, Letty thought she might resist. Instead, the chef embraced Fitch again, said, “You take care of yourself, Johnny.”

Fitch watched her cross to the front door.

As she opened it, she called out, “Dessert dishes and silverware are on the counter beside the oven! Goodnight, Johnny!”

“‘Night, Angie!”

The door slammed after her, and for a moment, the house stood absolutely silent.

Fitch sat down.

He said, “How strange to know you’ve just seen a friend for the last time.”

He sipped his wine.

Letty looked out the window.

The moon was rising out of the sea. In its light, she could see the profile of a suited man walking down a path toward the shore.

“It begins to go so fast,” Fitch said.

“What?”

“Time. You cling to every second. Savor everything. Wish you’d lived all your days like this. Excuse me.”

He rose from his seat. Letty watched him shuffle across to the other side of the room and disappear through a door which he closed after him.

She lifted her purse into her lap and tore it open. Her fingers moved with sufficient clumsiness to convince her she’d gotten herself drunk. She grasped the spray bottle. Fitch still had some wine left in two of his glasses. Reaching across the table, she put five squirts into the one on the left.

The door Fitch had gone through creaked open.

He emerged cradling a bottle in one arm and carrying two glasses in the other.

He was grinning.

From across the room, he held up the bottle, said, “The jewel of our evening. Come on over here, sugar.”

Fitch sat down on a leather sofa.

Letty still hadn’t moved, her mind scrambling.

I missed my chance. I missed my chance.

9

Fitch waved her over. “Sit with me!”

Letty glanced at her watch as she stood.

7:05.

Fifty-five minutes until her rendezvous with Javier at the east end of the island.

She grabbed one of her wineglasses and Fitch’s.

He was already tugging the cork out of the bottle as she walked over.

Letty said, “Here you go and leave, and I was just on the verge of making a beautiful toast.” She tried to hand Fitch his wineglass.

“We’ll toast with this instead,” he said, showing her the bottle—Macallan 1926.

“Oh, I’m not too much of a scotch girl.”

“I understand, but this is really something. You couldn’t not love this.”

“Now I’m losing my nerve.”

She thought she registered a flash of something behind his eyes—rage? But they quickly softened. Fitch put the bottle down and accepted his glass and stood.

Letty had no idea of what to say.

She looked up at Fitch and smiled, her mind blank.

It came to her in an instant—a toast she’d overheard at a wedding she’d crashed two years ago. Back then, she’d spent her Saturdays stealing presents from brides and grooms. She’d developed something akin to an X-ray sense for determining the most expensive gifts based solely on wrapping paper.

She raised her glass.

“Johnny.”

“Selena.”

“May a flock of blessings light upon thy back.”

“Ah, Shakespeare. Lovely.”

Letty watched as he polished off the last two ounces of his wine. They sat on the sofa. Fitch opened the scotch and poured them each two fingers into heavy tumblers.

He put his arm around Letty. She cuddled in close. He went on for a minute about the rarity of this spirit they were about to imbibe. He was drunk, beginning to ramble. She finally sipped the scotch. It was good. Better than any whiskey she’d ever tasted, but she hadn’t lied. She just wasn’t a scotch girl.

After a while, he said, “Everything I’ve ever done, I’ve done for my family, Selena. Everything.”

Sitting with Fitch on the sofa, it hit her again. That old, familiar enemy. Regret. Guilt. Her conscience. Truth was, she liked Fitch. If for no other reason than he was facing a lifetime behind bars with grace. Making the most of his final hours of freedom. She tried to remind herself of all the people Fitch had hurt. And it wasn’t like he’d be hanging this painting she was about to steal on the walls of his prison cell.

But the arguments rang hollow. Insincere.

After awhile, she felt his head dip toward hers.

He was saying something about his family, about how everything had always been for them. His eyes were wet. He didn’t sound drunk so much as sleepy.

Letty set her glass on the coffee table and eased Fitch’s out of his grasp.

“What’re you doing?” he slurred.

Letty stood and took him by the hand. She pulled him up off the couch.

“Come with me,” she whispered.

“My drink.” His eyes were heavy.

“You can always finish your drink.” She pressed up against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t you want me, Johnny?” She kissed him with passion this time—open-mouthed and long. Hoped it would give him enough of a charge to make it into bed.

She led him through the living room.

“Where’s your room?” she whispered even though she knew from the blueprints that it was very likely the large master suite on this level. He pointed toward the opening to a hallway just behind the spiral staircase.

They stumbled down a wide corridor. The walls were covered with photos of Fitch’s family. One in particular caught Letty’s eye as she passed by. It had been taken out on the deck of this house fifteen, maybe twenty years ago—a much younger Fitch standing with three teenage boys. All shirtless and tanned. Mrs. Fitch in a bathing suit. The sea empty, huge, and glittering behind them.

Letty dragged Fitch through the doorway of his bedroom and shut the door behind them. The suite was sprawling. There was a flatscreen television mounted to the wall across from the bed. A bookcase. A small desk where she spotted a laptop, cell phone, and an empty wineglass. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the dock. French doors opened onto the deck. She couldn’t see the moon from here, but she could see its light falling on the sea.

“Go lie down,” she said.

Fitch staggered toward the bed.

Letty took her time pulling the curtains.

Fitch mumbled, “You’re so...beautiful.”

“That’s what my daddy used to tell me.” She could feel the push of adrenaline cutting through her intoxication.”I just need to step into your bathroom for a moment,” she said. “I’ll be right out. You get comfortable.”

He said, “We don’t have to do anything. Unless you want to.” The words came too soft, too muddled.

Letty walked into the bathroom. She shut the door, hit the light.

It was bigger than most apartments she’d lived in. Leaning over the sink, she studied her pupils in the mirror. They were black and huge. She sat down on the toilet and took a deep breath. All the things she needed to do in the next forty-five minutes pressed down on her. She took herself through all the steps. Pictured it happening perfectly.

Five minutes passed.

She went to the door.

Pulled it open as softly as she could manage and slipped back into Fitch’s room.

The wood-paneled walls now glowed with a soft warmth from candles on the bedside tables. They smelled like vanilla. The hardwood creaked as she crossed to the foot of Fitch’s bed.

The old man lay on his back with his arms and legs spread out. His shirt was unbuttoned, his pants pulled down to his knees. It was as far as he’d gotten. He snored quietly, his chest rising and falling.