No. Bennett had always said that the trick was to be very careful until it was time to act boldly. Coming in wasn’t careful. Which meant—

Daniel Hayes crossed her row, all the way at the end, the bright print on his shirt slipping between the tables of diners.

Belinda glanced around. No sign of Bennett. She’d have to move anyway. She touched the pistol through her shirt, then started forward as fast as she dared.

5

After the crowded halls of the food court, the maintenance hall was a stark change. Painted institutional gray and lit by fluorescents, it screamed “employees only.” Daniel stepped into it and around the corner. The hall ran thirty yards before turning the corner. There were a couple of doors near the end, closets maybe?

Halfway down, two men leaned against opposite walls, talking in Spanish. They glanced up at Daniel, then went back to their conversation. Damn. The place was perfect, other than these two.

So get rid of them. He walked over, said, “What, you guys don’t have jobs to do?”

A guilty look flashed across one of their faces, but the other said, “We’re on break. Who are you?”

“Excuse me?’ Daniel raised an eyebrow. “You think this place manages itself?”

“You’re not my boss—”

“Believe me, I am. This is a working market, boys. You’re on break, fine. But don’t be cluttering up my hallways.”

For a moment he thought the man might push him, but then the old power dynamic took over. White man with attitude trumps Hispanic in an apron. A shitty fact of life, maybe, but he’d worry about moral righteousness later. The guilty one said, “Sure, sure, no problem.” They began down the hall, one of them muttering in Spanish, “¿Quien se cree? Mamón presumido.”

“Y cuidate lo que dices, pendejo,” Daniel replied over his shoulder, then did a double-take. Huh. I know Spanish. Cool.

Focus. There wasn’t much time. Before heading into the hallway, he’d walked a couple of circuits of the market, wanting to make sure that the killer was able to follow him. It had been incredibly hard not to look back, knowing that his wife’s murderer was behind. Soon enough, you’ll get a look at the fucker. A look and more.

He raced to the end of the hall, tried the left-hand door. A janitor’s closet, mops and pails and brooms. The door on the other side opened into a small employee bathroom, the tile dingy, a roll of paper towels sitting on the sink.

Make a stand here, or go back out and see what’s around the corner?

Daniel opened the janitor’s closet again. A dark, private place. So long as he didn’t dawdle, he could do anything he wanted here. All he had to do was lure the man in.

He smiled and set to work.

5

Belinda lost Daniel, then, as she rounded the end of the row, saw him vanishing down an employee’s hallway. She took a moment, scanned the crowd. Hundreds of people, the static noise of overlapping conversations, of forks grinding plates and chairs scraping concrete. But no sign of Bennett. Maybe he hadn’t seen Daniel head down this way.

It doesn’t matter. You’re Belinda Nichols. You’re a dangerous woman with a loaded gun. And the man you’ve been looking for just went into an empty hallway.

She took a breath, started forward. A couple of Hispanic guys walked out of the hallway, one of them pissed about something, the other trying to make a joke. Belinda let them pass, then started down the hall.

The floor was tile, the lighting bright. About thirty yards away, the hall turned another corner, maybe out to the trash? Perhaps this whole thing had been a game. Maybe Daniel had known he was being followed, wanted to lose them in the crowd. He could be doubling back right now, heading for his car.

She hurried down the hallway, her sneakers squeaking on the floor. When she was almost to the end, she noticed that the door on the left wall was open a crack. She slowed, glanced behind her, nerves popping like firecrackers. The light inside the door was out, and she couldn’t see much but shadows and shapes . . . and a green and blue pattern. One a lot like the shirt Daniel had worn.

He’s hiding in the closet.

Belinda hurried forward, reached for the handle, and yanked the door open.

5

Daniel had never known his heart could beat so loud. He half worried the killer would hear it. He squeezed his eyes closed, took a deep breath. You get one shot at this.

The mop handle felt right in his hands, the wood smooth, the finish worn off by a thousand nights of cleaning. He listened, knowing the man was coming, wanting him to, but scared too, the fear a taste in his mouth.

Footsteps, and a squeak like tennis shoes.

He held his breath, choked up on the stick. Come on, come on.

The footsteps paused. Then suddenly they were hurrying, and he heard the sound of the door opening.

Now.

With his left hand he ripped open the door to the bathroom and lunged out, the makeshift bat cocked back, ready to take the killer’s head half off, to beat the man helpless. He swung as he stepped out, taking aim at the temple of the—

It was a woman. Lithe, slim, and wearing a baseball cap.

5

Belinda yanked open the door of the janitor’s closet, the light flickering on as she did, so that she could see brooms and mops and a sink with a slow drip, a drop of water trembling at the faucet. A bucket stood just inside the door, the broken handle of a mop sticking straight up, a black Hawaiian shirt with blue and green parrots draped over the top, the whole thing like an anemic scarecrow. What the—

There was a noise behind her, the scrape of a door, and she whirled, one hand flying to her belt, fumbling against the gun as Daniel Hayes surged at her, a mop handle in one fist. She flinched back, watching that arc of wood whistling toward her with more than enough force to bat her arm aside. She could imagine the snapping sharp pain that would numb her hand, then the smack as it hit her head, stars and comets and the world hopping.

Only the blow never landed. At the last second Daniel pulled it, twisting awkwardly to bring the club whistling over her head. Momentum kept him going, following through like a batter at a pitch, and he stopped, arms up in an awkward backhand pose. He froze. His fingers opened, and the stick clattered to the floor.

Belinda lowered her hands. Daniel stared at her. It looked like he was trying to speak but had forgotten the muscles. He blinked, gaped, blinked. Managed to twist his lips into motion. “You?” His voice dry and thin. “But. You’re—”

“Dead. I know. I’m so, so sorry, Daniel.”

And then Laney Thayer stepped forward and threw her arms around her husband.

ACT TWO, PART TWO

“People always think something’s all true.”

—J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

S

omeone had hooked electrodes up to either ear and slammed waves of electricity through his skull. His brain was static and noise. Questions surged on that buzzing sea, thoughts tumbled and spun. The mop handle slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a hollow clatter.

His wife was alive.

Dressed in a plain T-shirt and jeans, her hair now blond and pulled through the back of her baseball cap, a splotchy mark like a bruise running up her cheek and across one eye, but all of that no more concealing to his eyes than tissue paper. There were the high cheekbones, the pale pink lips he’d kissed a hundred thousand times, the long graceful neck, and the eyes, the eyes, bright and alive.