Chapter 43 · The Real Balance

His side of the bed was cold.

Not warm-and-just-left cold. Stone cold. Gray winter light cut through the blinds, and the wind shook the glass like it was trying to break in.

Then I saw his gun.

It sat right in the hollow of his pillow. Barrel turned away. Laid out neat, like a signed receipt.

Under the slide was a stack of paper. Eleven pages, typed. I knew his heavy scrawl at the bottom before I read the first line.

I read every single word.

The wet asphalt on Route 9. Walt Kessler’s name spelled correctly. The snipped brake line. The nineteen-year-old kid who drove the backup car and kept his mouth shut for twelve years. Then the rest. Port kickbacks. Two city judges. Every ledger account I’d flagged over cold coffee, cross-referenced with bank routing numbers.

At the very bottom, right above his signature: *To the Special Prosecutor. I will surrender at the federal courthouse at 9:00 AM.*

My fingers shook. I wasn't giving the cold credit for it.

"You absolute coward," I whispered to the empty room.

I didn't hunt for slippers.