Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(115)

Set the cartel up.

That is, if Mendez takes the bait. I’m counting on his greed, his arrogance, his sense of entitlement.

I finally see it.

In those near-black eyes of his, the wheels begin churning. He knows what I’m expecting he’ll do with this information. “Why?” It’s a simple question. A fair one.

I sure as hell won’t tell him why it matters to me. Information like that may cost me down the road. Standing, the only answer I give is, “Let’s just say that we’re both getting something out of this.”

I walk out of Sin City, telling myself over and over again that I made the right decision.

That there was no other choice.

■ ■ ■

“Do I even want to know?”

I push my front door closed behind Dan as he stalks into my condo. He’s never been here before. I’m guessing, by his overly calm tone, that he’s not looking for a tour.

“I don’t know. Do you?” I ask.

Dan stops halfway through the kitchen before spinning on his heels to settle shrewd eyes on me. “Sam Arnoni’s body was found in his hotel room this morning by a maid. Beheaded.”

I force myself to take a sip of my coffee, trying to hide the wave of shock that just crashed into me.

Twelve hours.

I walked out of Sin City twelve hours ago. I’ve got to give Mendez credit. He doesn’t waste a second. The guy was probably on the phone with one of his “people” as soon as the door clicked shut behind me.

“Are you sure?”

Dan nods slowly. “I just left the hotel. Saw the body myself.”

A prickle of guilt stirs inside me. “And no one else was hurt?”

Still watching me closely, he says, “No. Looks like a professional hit.”

Passing by Dan, I make my way to my living room to look out over the bay in a dreamlike state.

Sam is actually . . . dead.

And I helped kill him.

“I’m . . . Did . . . ” Dan begins to ask and then stops abruptly. “You know what? I’d ask you if you knew he was in town, but I don’t think I even want to know that much.”

“I was at Penny’s until five a.m. and then at the gym until eight. You can check surveillance if you don’t believe me. I’m not a professional hit man,” I mutter dryly, adding, “or a murderer.”

“I know you’re not, Cain. And it’s definitely a cartel hit, by the signature.” We stand side by side in silence as we watch a sailboat pass by. It probably wouldn’t take much for Dan to find out that I had been to Sin City last night. He could probably also demand to see my surveillance footage to confirm that Sam was at Penny’s last night. If he truly wanted to know.

“With Sam gone, Charlie’s free to come home, isn’t she?” Dan finally asks. I wonder where he’s going with this.

“If she knew that he was dead. If she knew she wasn’t going to be arrested for anything, then . . . yeah, I supposed she could.” I sigh. Home. Would she consider Miami home? Would she want to come back? “I don’t know how to reach her, though. Do you think this will make the news?”

His hand scratches his chin. “Local news for sure. Maybe New York. I’ll see what I can do. If she’s in some small town in Alaska, she’s not likely going to hear about this.” He smiles. “I know a guy who knows a guy . . . who knows a guy.”





chapter forty-six


■ ■ ■

CHARLIE

“See? Doesn’t it look like he’s wearing mascara?”

Berta has an obsession with a dark-haired reporter on our local news station.

“He probably is,” I confirm as I count the money in my small waitress apron. On average, I’ll make fifty bucks a night in tips. Seventy, on a really good night, Berta has promised. If she knew what I used to do, and how much money I used to make in one night, she’d have a coronary.

“And lipstick, too?” Her eyes squint as she studies the screen. “Yesterday, they were more peachy. Now they’re red. What kind of man wears red lipstick?”

“The kind who deals with harsh lighting and high definition, I suppose.” I quickly begin filling the salt and pepper shakers. The dinner rush is over, but it’s homecoming weekend. Molly and Teena, the day-shift waitresses, are pulling doubles tonight in anticipation of a late rush.

“Doug’s asking for you,” Teena whispers with a playful wink as she floats by, though it’s loud and raspy enough that half the diner probably heard her. Fortunately, the twenty-six-year-old mechanic is sitting in the far corner. Berta’s fantasy of marrying me off to her nephew was short-lived. She forced me to leave work for an hour last night to watch the parade with Doug.

His smile reminds me of Ben—broad and dimpled. But he’s not an obnoxious ass like Ben. He also kind of looks like him, with his blond hair and strong jaw. And he’s polite. He was a perfect gentleman last night, walking me back to Becker’s before it closed, offering nothing more than a “good night” head dip as he strolled away.

I wonder when this empty void inside my chest will shrink. It’s been a month, and some days I think it’s growing bigger. Isn’t time supposed to heal all wounds? Shouldn’t four weeks have given me some relief from the relentless pain and self-doubt?