“You’re right,” Win said.

All eyes were on the gun pressed near Rochester’s temple. That was the mistake. It was like a classic magician’s trick. The Twins had not wondered why Win had released his grip on Rochester’s throat. But the reason was simple:

It was so that Win—using Rochester’s body to block their view—could ready his second gun.

Myron tilted his head a little to the left. The bullet from the second gun, the one that had been hidden behind Rochester’s left hip, struck Ascot Bite square in the forehead. He was dead instantly. Myron felt something wet splash on his cheek.

At the same time, Win fired the first gun, the one that had been at Rochester’s head. That bullet slammed into Art Teacher’s throat. He went down, his hands clawing at what had been his voice box. He may have been dead or at least bleeding to death. Win didn’t chance it.

The second bullet hit the man square between the eyes.

Win turned back to Rochester. “Breathe funny and you end up like them.”

Rochester made himself stay impossibly still. Win bent down next to Myron and started ripping off the duct tape. He looked down at Ascot Bite’s dead body.

“Chew on that,” Win said to the corpse. He turned back to Myron. “Get it? The biting, chew on that?”

“Hilarious. Where’s Mrs. Seiden?”

“She’s safe, out of the house, but you’ll need to make up a cover story for her.”

Myron thought about that.

“Did you call the police?” Myron asked.

“Not yet. In case you wanted to ask some questions.”

Myron looked at Rochester.

“Talk to him downstairs,” Win said, handing Myron a gun. “I’ll pull the car into the garage and start the cleanup.”

CHAPTER 24

The cleanup.

Myron had some idea of what Win meant, though they wouldn’t discuss it directly. Win had holdings all over the place, including a tract of land in a secluded section of Sussex County, New Jersey. The property was eight acres. Most of it was undeveloped woods. If you ever tried to trace down ownership, you’d find a holding company from the Cayman Islands. You would find no names.

There was a time when Myron would have been upset over what Win had done. There was a time when he would have mustered up all his moral outrage. He would give his old friend long, complicated musings about the sanctity of life and the dangers of vigilantism and all that. Win would look at him and utter three words:

Us or them.

Win probably could have given the “stalemate” another minute or two. He and the Twins might have come to an understanding. You go, we go, no one gets hurt. That sort of thing. But that wasn’t meant to be.

The Twins were as good as dead the moment Win entered the scene.

The worst part was that Myron no longer felt bad about it. He would shrug it off. And when he’d started doing that, when he knew that killing them was the prudent thing to do and that their eyes would not haunt his sleep . . . that was when he knew it was time to stop doing this. Rescuing people, playing along that flimsy line between good and bad—it robbed a little sliver of your soul.

Except maybe it didn’t.

Maybe playing along that line—seeing the other side of it—just grounded you in awful reality. The fact is this: A million Orville the Art Teachers or Jeb the Ascots aren’t worth the life of even one innocent, of one Brenda Slaughter or one Aimee Biel or one Katie Rochester or, as in the case overseas, the life of his soldier son, Jeremy Downing.

It might seem amoral to feel this way. But there it was. He applied this thinking to the war too. In his most honest moments, the ones he dare not speak out loud, Myron didn’t care that much about the civilians trying to scrape by in some dump-hole desert. He didn’t care if they got democracy or not, if they experienced freedom, if their lives were made better. What he did care about were the boys like Jeremy. Kill a hundred, a thousand, on the other side, if need be. But don’t let anyone hurt my boy.

Myron sat across from Rochester. “I wasn’t lying before. I’m trying to find Aimee Biel.”

Rochester just stared.

“You know that both girls used the same ATM?”

Rochester nodded.

“There has to be a reason why. It’s not a coincidence. Aimee’s parents don’t know your daughter. They don’t think Aimee knew her either.”

Rochester finally spoke. “I asked my wife and kids,” he said, his voice soft. “None of them think Katie knew Aimee.”

“But the two girls went to the same school,” Myron said.

“It’s a big school.”

“There’s a connection. There has to be. We’re just missing it. So what I need you and your family to do is start searching for that connection. Ask Katie’s friends. Look through her stuff. Something links your daughter and Aimee. We find it, we’ll be that much closer.”

Rochester said, “You’re not going to kill me.”

“No.”

His eyes traveled upstairs. “Your guy made the right move. Killing the Twins, I mean. You let them go, they’d have tortured your mother until she cursed the day you were born.”

Myron chose not to comment.

“I was stupid to hire them,” Rochester said. “But I was desperate.”

“If you’re looking for forgiveness, go to hell.”

“I’m just trying to make you understand.”

“I don’t want to understand,” Myron said. “I want to find Aimee Biel.”

Myron had to go to the emergency room. The doctor looked at the bite on his leg and shook his head.

“Jesus, you get attacked by a shark?”

“A dog,” Myron lied.

“You should put it down.”

Win took that one: “Already done.”

The doctor used sutures and then bandaged it up. It hurt like hell. He gave Myron some antibiotics and pills for the pain. When they left, Win made sure Myron still had the gun. He did.

“You want me to stay around?” Win said.

“I’m fine.” The car accelerated down Livingston Avenue. “Are those two guys taken care of?”

“Gone forever.”

Myron nodded. Win watched his face.

“They’re called the Twins,” Win said. “The older one with the ascot, he would have bitten off your nipples first. That’s how they warm up. One nipple, then the other.”

“I understand.”

“No lecture on overreacting?”