Drake rolled his eyes. ‘He always has that look. Like he swallowed a lemon.’

‘No, this was different. He knew I was lying.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ he asked smoothly.

A slight pause. ‘What am I going to do?’ she asked quietly. Too quietly, actually. ‘You’re the one who killed her. What are you going to do?’

Her calm rattled him a little. She was supposed to be terrified. Girls always got terrified when there was trouble. They squealed and begged him for direction. Stephanie would too. She just didn’t know it yet.

‘What we’re going to do is hang loose and pretend like we don’t have a care in the world. And what we’re going to do is remember that we were in that car together.’ He hardened his tone, made it menacing. ‘Right?’

‘Right.’ A deep breath and a decidedly less aggressive tone. ‘Right. Whatever you say.’

‘Good answer.’ And if Stephanie folded? Drake might just have to up his killing tally to three.

Somehow the idea didn’t bother him as much as it probably should have.

Besides, Drake was not afraid of Stephanie’s father. He had insurance. He had the flash drive in his underwear drawer. On it, he’d burned a copy of Stephanie’s father’s files every time he accessed the man’s computer. Every time they took Tala out to play.

When the old man saw what Drake had on him, he would never bother them again.

Cincinnati, Ohio

Tuesday 4 August, 7.45 A.M.

‘Mr Sweeney? Do you have a minute?’ Ken’s secretary’s voice came through the intercom. At the office, Alice Newman always called him Mr Sweeney. Any other place, he was simply Dad. Alice had never been a Sweeney – mostly for her own protection, especially when she was a child. Ken made too many enemies to allow either of his children to be made into targets by association. Then again, Ken hadn’t been born a Sweeney either. None of his team used the names they’d been born with. It was tidier that way.

His daughter with his first wife, Alice had graduated with honors from the University of Kentucky’s law school and was learning the business from the ground up. Ken hoped she’d take over soon so that he could meet his goal of retirement to a sunny beach by the time he was fifty. Luckily Alice was a quick study, because Ken had only two years to go. ‘One of your employees would like to talk with you,’ she added professionally.

Ken looked up from the P&L statements he was reviewing. The profits were lower and the losses were higher than they’d been a year ago. Combined with the morning surprise from security and the fact that Reuben had as of yet failed to report, he was not in a good mood.

‘Who is it, Alice?’ he asked impatiently.

‘Gene Decker. He, um, says it’s important.’

Ken frowned. What the hell? ‘Tell Decker to route any accounting concerns through his boss. And tell Joel that he needs to keep his people busier so they don’t have time to bother me. And where the fuck is Reuben?’

‘Mr Blackwell hasn’t called in yet. And Mr Decker says it’s not about accounting. It’s related to the call he made to you this morning.’

Fuck. Decker was supposed to have gone back to the accounting office and minded his own business. ‘Send him in,’ Ken said coldly.

‘Thank you, Mr Sweeney,’ Gene said respectfully a minute later as he came in and closed Ken’s office door. He didn’t come in any farther, taking a military stance – staring straight ahead, his feet spread wide, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘I appreciate your time, sir. I know you’re busy.’

Ken blew out a breath, trying not to snap. ‘Come the hell in and sit down,’ he said, pointing to one of the leather wingback chairs on the other side of his desk. He silently observed the man’s fluid movements as he obeyed.

‘It looks like your injury’s healed,’ he remarked. ‘Your limp is gone.’

‘Yes, sir. Mostly, anyway.’ Decker lowered himself into the wing chair gingerly, as if afraid his weight might break it. Had the chair been of lesser quality, he might have been right. Built like a linebacker, he’d surprised them early on by demonstrating the speed of a sprinter and the footwork of a boxer. The combination had made him one hell of a bodyguard, a fact to which Ken could personally attest. Ken wouldn’t be sitting at his desk today if Gene Decker hadn’t been so fast on his feet. Unfortunately the accident had robbed Decker of some of his speed and agility. He wouldn’t be returning to personal security anytime soon.

Decker’s loss had been the company’s gain, though. Skilled bodyguards were a dime a dozen, but a man with Decker’s creative accounting skills? The young man had quite a future ahead of him.

Decker shifted in the chair that dwarfed most men, but his shoulders were simply too wide for a comfortable fit. Giving up, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression was troubled. ‘We have a problem, sir.’

‘I take it that this is regarding the computer alarm from last night?’

Decker nodded. ‘Sean in IT says a 501 is a tracker tamper alert.’

Ken did not allow his expression to change, but inside he was seething. He went to IT? After I expressly told him to drop it? ‘I told you to go back to accounting and to leave the alarm to Mr Blackwell. Why didn’t you?’

‘I did, sir. I stayed at my desk for an hour thinking Mr Blackwell would come to me to get my statement about what had happened with the alarm and the guy on duty. But he never showed up, so I went looking for him.’

‘There was no need for Reuben Blackwell to get your statement. He was fully aware of the situation because I spoke with him – after I told you to go back to accounting.’

Decker didn’t flinch. ‘But he never came in at all, sir. When I went up to the security office to find him, Jason Jackson was still lying on the floor, asleep. The 501 warning was still flashing on the computer screen.’

Ken couldn’t mask his disbelief. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I know, sir. But that’s what happened. I imagine the security office is wired, so there should be a video to prove what I’m saying.’

And Ken would be watching that video as soon as Decker had gone back to his office. ‘What did you do next?’

‘I helped Jackson to his feet, but he . . . well, he threw up.’ A slight grimace. ‘He had a fever and I wasn’t sure what to do with him, so I dialed “one” to get Mr Blackwell’s cell phone, but all I got was voicemail again. So I left a message with Blackwell, cleaned Jackson up, called him a cab, and sent him home. When I was cleaning him up, I found a bottle of cough syrup in his pocket. That could have been the alcohol I smelled on his breath. I saved the bottle in case you wanted to see it.’

Ken let out a slow breath, counting to ten. ‘And you just . . . sent him home.’

‘Yes, sir. In a cab, sir.’ A slight hesitation, then Decker barreled forward. ‘Jackson is a good man, Mr Sweeney. He’s loyal. I worked a few shifts with him when I was in personal security. We weren’t exactly friends, but we did share a few meals. I didn’t think he’d drink on the job. I was glad to find the cough syrup. Maybe it reacted with another medication he’d taken, I don’t know.’

‘I’ll send someone to check on him.’ And someone else to check on Blackwell. ‘I take it that you took it upon yourself to go to IT?’

A single nod, no regret on Decker’s face. ‘Like I said, the computer was still blinking with the 501 code. I assumed no one had taken care of it, and you’d made it clear you didn’t want to be called back, so I went to IT to find out what was going on. I was part of security before I got hurt. I didn’t think this was a huge issue.’

And that was where Decker was wrong. He’d been part of the legitimate security arm. The tracker wasn’t. But he had been right about one thing – the tracker alarm needed to be attended to, and quickly. Someone had escaped and could even now be revealing all to the police.