"Don't tell me. You're a Yankees fan, too," Charlie said as I clapped at a Posada double. "Could you try just a tiny bit more not to make me hate you even more?"

"Not a chance," I said before finis.h.i.+ng my beer and standing. "Watch my seat, and I counted my wings, by the way, Harvard boy."

The first thing I noticed as I headed back to our table a few minutes later was that there was a police car at the curb in front of the open doors. The second was that there was somebody in my seat.

When I realized who that somebody was, I stopped in midstride in the middle of the bar as if I'd hit an invisible wall.

Chapter 85.

I STOOD THERE. The people at the bar and the multiple ball games on the TVs above them suddenly seemed out of rhythm, somehow both too slow and too fast. The sound from the bar's speakers, which had been playing the cla.s.sic rock song "A Whiter Shade of Pale," alternately blasted and dipped, as if a child were playing with the volume k.n.o.b. The cigar factory workers now sent me malignant stares from the vintage photographs. So did a stocky waitress, jostling past me, as I stood in the middle of the crowded room, my lungs and heart seizing.

Peter sat in the booth with Charlie less than ten feet away on my right. He was wearing his dark blue police uniform, his thick, chiseled arms as deeply tanned as I remembered them. It was as if he hadn't aged at all.

I couldn't take my eyes off the b.u.t.t of his gun on his Sam Browne belt. In a moment, he would turn and see me, I thought. In a moment, he would stand and draw and fire his gun into my face. People or no people, the fact that almost two decades had pa.s.sed meant nothing. Killing was what Peter did.

I was suddenly extremely aware of my heartbeat. I could feel the systole and diastole of my heart clenching and releasing as I waited for Peter to catch me out of the corner of his eye.

But after one second and then two, miraculously he didn't turn. After a third moment, my paralysis lessened, and I was suddenly able to move. I mustered up the last iota of my will to live. I backpedaled, turned, and squeezed into a place along the crowded bar.

"So you're still trying to pull some tricks up in Boca," Peter said to Charlie at my back, as I eavesdropped. "I mean, you seem like a decent lush, Baylor. Why represent a piece of garbage like Harris? Controversial client like that is bound to stir up people's emotions. I'd hate to see you become a victim of a violent crime."

"Is that a threat?" Charlie said.

"Just some friendly advice," Peter said. "Your own personal public service announcement from Key West's chief of police."

"Don't you have any drunks to beat up?" Charlie said.

"Fresh out," Peter said. "But if you're free, we could head outside."

"Be happy to," Charlie said. "You keep the badge, I get the gun."

"You're real funny, Counselor, but what's not funny is that you're trying to protect the man who killed my wife from his just reward."

I swallowed. Peter was referring to me, I realized.

"It doesn't matter," Peter said. "No matter what you do, Friday night, your precious client is walking into that chamber, and they're going to carry him out in a bag."

"We'll see about that, won't we?" Charlie said calmly.

"Yes, we certainly will," Peter said.

I heard Peter stand. Would he come to the bar and order a drink? Was he behind me? Before I could muster up the courage to turn around, I felt a hand at my back.

"There you are," Charlie said.

I couldn't have been more relieved.

"Who was that cop?" I managed to spit out.

"Chief of Police Peter Fournier. Must have heard it through the grapevine that we were looking at Tara Foster's file."

I blinked down at the floor, trying to absorb that.

"Some people say he's dirty, but whenever any complaints arise, he always ends up smelling like a rose. You have to see him, with his perfect Barbie doll wife and two perfect little Stepford kids, like he's Mr. All-American Dad. Then he comes in here just now with that high-wattage Tom Cruise smile of his and threatens me. Sick puppy."

Peter had a wife and kids now?! I wasn't sure how I felt about that. I'd be sure to go over it when my heart started beating again.

"You want another beer?" Charlie said.

"Yes," I said. "And a shot of whiskey."

"There you go, Nina. Get into that Key West vibe. I didn't know you had it in you," Charlie said with a wink. "But then I call us a taxi. We need to rest up for tomorrow. We have only another three days. I have a feeling this one is going to be a race to the finish line, don't you?"

Chapter 86.

I IMMEDIATELY HIT THE SHOWER when I got back to my hotel room. With my hands flat against the gla.s.s tile wall, I stood directly under the spray in the suite's spa-like bathroom for almost an hour, my eyes closed as the hot needles pinged off my face and skin.

I was hoping the heat and the rush of the water might clear my mind, deliver some much-needed calm, but as the minutes pa.s.sed, I knew it was fruitless.

I couldn't stop thinking about how dangerously close I'd come to Peter, but after a while, I realized there actually were some positives. One, Peter was back in Key West, away from Emma. Two, if Peter didn't ask Charlie about me that meant Peter didn't seem to know that I wasn't in New York. And three, he didn't know that I was helping Charlie.

But I had to keep things that way. Going out for dinner and drinks on Duval Street was about as reckless a move as I could have made. All Peter had to do was turn, give the slightest of glances over his shoulder, and he would have seen me again.

Freeing Justin was my priority, but I had to be smarter. I also needed to wrap this up as soon as possible. Every moment I stayed down here, I was playing with my life.

Finally, reluctantly, I squeaked off the faucet and squeezed out my hair. After I dried and wrapped myself in a couple of fresh towels, I pulled on the fluffy bathrobe that was hanging on the inside of the bathroom door. I went into the bedroom and set the alarm clock for five so I could get up early to do my hair.

I was going to call Emma back in New York, but then I realized how late it was and decided to just text my daughter good-night instead. Too exhausted to get into my pj's, I sat for a moment on the side of the bed.

Beyond the open doorway of the bedroom, the living room curtains were wafting gently in the breeze from the rooftop patio slider. Between them a slight sliver of the moon glowed over the still silver plain of the water.

Could Charlie see it, too? I wondered. I couldn't deny how I was starting to feel about him. He was funny, intelligent, not hard to look at, though the breakfast beers would have to go.

I turned off the light and lay back on the pillows, already half asleep, when I had a much less romantic thought. Without turning, I glanced over at the billowing living room curtains, furling now in the dark like a full sail.

But how could the curtains be blowing in the breeze? I thought.

When I'd locked my balcony door before my shower?

Chapter 87.

FOR THE NEXT two solid minutes, I lay there in the dark, my heart rapping like a set of bra.s.s knuckles at the inside of my chest, silence sizzling in my ears.

But there has to be a good reason was the thought that scrolled through my unraveling mind like a continuous news crawl.

Then my molars clicked together involuntarily as a faint sc.r.a.ping sound came from just beyond the open bedroom door.

Something in my chest started to flutter when I heard it again. It came from the left, as if someone standing in the suite's kitchen had s.h.i.+fted his weight.

Not just any someone either, I suddenly thought.

I guess Peter hadn't missed seeing me at the bar after all.

I knew I couldn't just stay there, that I needed to get up, hide, run, do something. But I didn't move. I couldn't. Animal fear pressed down on my chest like a lead blanket, making me weak, pinning me to the bed.

After a long, careful, silent breath, I lifted my hand as if to prove to myself that I could, in fact, move.

Good, I thought stupidly.

Now I needed to do the same thing with my feet.

I reached out as I slowly sat up, my right hand brus.h.i.+ng along the top of the bedside radio alarm clock. I was standing, my eyes glued to the dark doorway, when I had an idea. I bent down slowly, unplugged the heavy clock, and brought it with me to the side of the open bedroom door.

As I arrived, a dark figure moved smoothly and silently through the bedroom doorway.

At first, I didn't believe it.

This isn't happening, I thought, suddenly frozen and senseless again. How could this be happening? I'm dreaming this.

Then a switch tripped somewhere in the primordial part of my brain, and I snapped out of my daze and swung the clunky alarm clock by its cord two-handed as hard as I could.

There was an unexpectedly loud shattering sound followed by a heavy thump as the figure immediately went down. I'd swung high and a.s.sumed I'd hit Peter in the head, but I didn't stick around to find out. I dropped what was left of the clock and ran in a blind panic out of the bedroom.

In two strides, I was through the suite's living room, my hand wrapped around the front doork.n.o.b, turning and pulling in one motion.

Then my arm almost came out of its socket as the door jerked to a stop only a quarter of the way open.

Hysterical, I tried the door two more times before I realized the slide lock was still engaged. Moaning and literally shaking with terror, I forced myself to methodically close the door, flip the lock free, and then try the k.n.o.b again.

That did it. I ran out into the blindingly bright hallway and burst through the closest stairwell door to my left. My bare feet slapped painfully off the concrete as I half ran, half fell down the stairs.

As I made the next lower landing, I paused. Huffing and puffing, I tried to quell my rioting mind and figure out what to do next. Should I go into the hallway and knock on some doors? Go down to the lobby? That's when the stairwell door above me blew open like it had been torn off its hinges.

Heavy footsteps began to hammer down the stairs as I turned and ripped open the lower floor's door. Shedding towels, with my robe flying wide, I ran half-naked now down the new hallway. Every molecule of my being was focused on one thing: pumping my legs up and down as fast as they would go, moving away from the sound behind me.

As I turned the next corner, I spotted a red metal box on the wall. A loud clanging started immediately as I yanked the fire alarm on the run. Doors opened up and down the hallway. A groggy teenager's eyes almost popped out of his head as he saw me streak past him at about thirty miles an hour.

I hit the next stairwell door and took this newest set of stairs two by two all the way to the ground floor. I crossed the empty lobby in nothing flat and headed for the hotel driveway. Standing in the drive's turnaround, the night manager was on his cell phone and looking up at the building.

I thought about stopping and asking for his help, but even he would be no protection from Peter, I realized. I spotted a taxi stopped at the light on the corner and bolted for it.

The traffic light turned from red to green when I was still about twenty feet away.

I wasn't going to make it, I thought as I ran barefoot, wheezing and covered in sweat, into the street. I winced, waiting for the feel of a bullet in my back, to fall sprawling on the asphalt. In my hysterical mind, it was already over. I could actually see Peter coming over and smiling his easy smile as he placed a gun to my forehead.

But instead, the cab suddenly stopped short and I jumped in. I broke a nail ripping open the handle of its rear door.

"In a rush, are we?" the young Asian wisea.s.s of a driver said as I collapsed across the rear seat.

"Drive," I gasped. "Drive, drive. Please just drive."

Chapter 88.

I MADE THE TAXI DRIVER PROMISE to wait for me as I pounded on Charlie's front door.

He finally opened it, wearing a pair of Texas A&M boxer shorts.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Charlie said. "Nina?"

I smoothed my still wet hair as I stood in my bathrobe, staring at him. I hadn't thought this far in advance. What could I say? How could I explain what had just happened?

He reached out and grabbed my elbow, sudden concern in his eyes.

"Nina, are you OK? Are you hurt?"

I was about to tell him that there was a fire at the hotel. Why not? What was another lie on top of nearly two decades' worth?

I was more surprised than anyone about what happened next. Maybe it was the fact that I'd come unglued with shock and wasn't thinking straight. Or that I'd been working so hard over the last week under such enormous stress.

I stepped over the threshold and crashed into Charlie like he was a tackling sled. I wrapped my arms around him like he was my last hope. Probably because he was.

He seemed baffled, to put it mildly. But that shocker wasn't anything compared to what came out of my mouth a second later.

"My name isn't Nina," I said in his ear. "Oh, Charlie. You have to help me. Please."