Chapter 19 · Countdowns and Carbons

"Forty-eight hours, Kessler. Then the boy stops being my problem and starts being my entertainment."

The radio spat static, then cut out. Dead air.

Dominic's hand stayed frozen on the dial. White knuckles. Mine were worse. I’d clamped onto a pencil so hard the lead snapped in my palm, and I hadn't even felt it bite.

"He's lying," Dominic said.

"Is he?"

"He doesn't have Danny."

"Then how does he know his name?"

Silence. Just the hum of the dehumidifier in the basement. Green banker's lamps threw swampy shadows over the metal table. Between us sat my father's ledger, open like a fresh corpse neither of us wanted to touch.

Six tiny security monitors glowed on the wall in washed-out gray. Gate. Boathouse. Kitchen door. Dead still.

"Sit," he said.

"I'm not a dog, Dominic."

"Mara." Softer. "Please."

God, I hated how that word hit me. Every single time.

I sat.

He dragged the second chair closer, metal screeching on concrete. He stopped when his knee was an inch from mine. Just an inch. He’d learned the line. He hovered there, waiting, his whole body asking if I was gonna flinch.

I didn't move.

His collar was unbuttoned two down.