Chapter 4 · Locked in His Possession

The cap rolled off the mahogany and disappeared into the carpet. I watched it go. Watching his face was the worse idea.

Marcus didn't speak. Sleeves rolled, my test in his hand, gray light off Sixth Avenue. He turned it once, the way he checks a signature for forgery.

Two lines. Pink as a brake light.

"Give it back."

"You can call it a drugstore error," he said. "You can call it stress. You can tell me it might be my son's. Say any of that and I will still be standing in this door."

"I don't know that it's yours."

"You spent last night under my hand, and you walked in here green, and the stick fell out of the bag you wouldn't let me touch." He set the test on the desk. Square to the edge. An exhibit. "Do the math, counselor, or I will."

I went for the door.

Two steps. He was faster than a fifty-four-year-old man had any right to be. His palm hit the walnut beside my head. His other hand had already thrown the second lock. Brass, then the low electric chirp. That sound went down my spine like cold water.

"Open it."