Armie shifted. "How'd Yvette's grandfather get it in the first place?"

Frank looked as if he wanted to shoot Armie right then, but he drew in a deep breath that tested the b.u.t.tons on his dress shirt, then exhaled it with new calm. "Tipton and I were friends." To Cannon, he said, "I told you that."

"I remember."

He nodded. "After my wife died-"

"After you killed her?"

"Not me!" Whitaker looked alarmed, insulted. He tugged at the collar of his shirt. "I told you, I don't want to hurt anyone."

"Then who?"

"Mindi. She said my wife had to go or we'd never be able to be together." He swallowed audibly. "While I was in court, she...she took some of my wife's things to make it look like a robbery, and then she shot her."

Deadpan, Armie asked, "Ever heard of divorce?"

Whitaker shook his head. "I couldn't, not without losing half of everything." He swiped the sweat from his temple, his neck.

The man was sweating like a pig, his nervousness climbing the longer he talked.

Maybe because he thought he'd have to eventually kill them all?

"She refused to divorce me without making me pay, and Mindi refused to wait for me to work it out." As if to convince them, Frank said, "I'm not a wealthy man! I've worked d.a.m.ned hard for everything I have, modest as it is. Half would only be... I'd be broke!"

"No way did my grandfather help you cover up a murder."

At the quiet break of her voice, Frank looked past Cannon to Yvette's angry face. "No. He wasn't like that. He was a very good man."

"Yes, he was."

"One thing I don't understand." Cannon again blocked Yvette with his body. "Why the h.e.l.l didn't you just dump the gun somewhere?"

"Mindi." Looking more miserable by the second, Frank nodded. "As my a.s.sistant, but acting on her own, she took a sealed box of my wife's personal possessions to Tipton. She said she told him I was distraught and she was afraid if I got rid of the things, I'd later regret it." He looked up, his eyes red rimmed. "She said it was leverage, that if I ever tried to turn her in for the murder, everyone would know I was involved, too."

Cannon couldn't fathom any man, much less an educated person of some means, being so stupid.

"And you still think you love her?" Armie whistled. "There's no hope for you."

"Armie," Cannon warned. He did not want or need his friend to play the hero.

Tipton didn't seem to hear him anyway. He stared toward them without really seeing. "Not knowing what was inside, Tipton agreed to hold it for me. I was going to get it back, but then he died... ."

"He knew," Cannon told him. "He was a good, honest man, and he knew you'd gotten involved in something you shouldn't have. That's why he had the gun-just the gun, Frank, nothing else-hidden in a lockbox up in the garage attic."

Frank denied that. "No, he trusted me."

"'Fraid not, pal." Armie stood. "He was on to you- and who knows who he might have told? We only just found the key and pa.s.s code to the safe, but there could be other notes. You should book while you can."

s.h.i.t. Cannon tensed, ready to charge the lawyer if it came to that. He wouldn't let Yvette be hurt, but, d.a.m.n it, he didn't want Armie hurt either.

Alarmed, Whitaker took a step closer. "Was it in the letter he left you?"

"So you stole a key but didn't read the letter?"

"I couldn't." His shoulders slumped and he sank back to lean on a counter. "Tipton had it sealed, so you'd have known... ."

Miserable b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"Did he ask you to stay?" Whitaker looked from Cannon to Yvette and back again. "Is that why you're still here? He heaped on the guilt?"

s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t. Cannon said, "I'm here because I want to be," at the same time Yvette asked, "What letter?"

"You should have gone!" Pushing away from the counter in a rush of frustration, Whitaker waved the gun. "It would have solved everything!"

"The p.a.w.nshop," Cannon said, thinking back to that bucket of rags set by the door. "Did you and Mindi try to set that fire to drive us away?"

"I keep telling you!" Totally losing his cool, Whitaker's voice rose to a ridiculously high octave. "It was Mindi, not me!"

"Mr. Whitaker." After smoothing her hand over Cannon's back again, Yvette peeked around Cannon. "None of this is your fault."

He was breathing hard, sweat rolling down his jowls. "No, no, it's not."

Voice gentle and calm, Yvette asked, "Do you know where Mindi went?"

"Away." He looked lost, forlorn, and jumped on the chance at an ally. "I don't know where." He dug in his pocket and extended a note in his shaky hand. "She left me this."

Cannon panicked, thinking Yvette would go closer to get the note.

She didn't budge from her seat. "What does it say?" she asked softly.

The note crumpled in his fist. "That she loves me, but she won't go to jail for me."

"And you love her-but there's no reason for you to go to jail either."

Afraid the lawyer might crack at any moment, Cannon stood, keeping in front of Yvette as much as he could. "It's easy enough, Whitaker." Moving slow so he wouldn't provoke a reaction, he closed the case, fastened the lock and held it out. "Take it. No one will ever need to know."

Undecided, Whitaker licked his lips. "I need to think." Raising his gun hand, he used his forearm to push his gla.s.ses farther up the bridge of his nose. His gaze locked on Yvette. "I think I should take her with me."

Cannon stared at him, saying with as much finality as he could, "No."

"If she's with me," he reasoned, "neither of you will try to follow. You won't call the cops either. You'll just have to wait until I release her."

His heart thundered. "That is not happening."

Inhaling courage, ignoring Cannon's protest, Whitaker nodded. "I think that's what I'll do." He pointed the gun at Cannon. "Come along, Yvette, or I'll have to shoot him."

Cannon clamped a hand to her, keeping her back. Eyes narrowed. Pulse tripping. "I already told you, she's not going anywhere."

He lifted his chin. "I'll shoot you."

That was preferable to him taking Yvette. "No one dies from one bullet, and you'd better believe I'll f.u.c.king take you apart before you get off a second shot."

Whitaker worked his jaw, then transferred his gaze to Armie. "Fine, I'll shoot that one." He locked his jaw, his finger on the trigger- Arm extended, Yvette stepped to the side. "Wait."

Cannon lunged to stay in front of her.

Whitaker switched his aim.

And pandemonium erupted.

Another man crashed into the room, tackling Whitaker hard up against the cabinets so that his spine connected with the hard edge of the countertop. They went down in a twist of arms and legs, shouts and screams.

The gun went off twice, the noise deafening in the small kitchen.

Cannon covered Yvette as best he could while quick stepping her into the dining room and around a divider wall. There was another shot, and Armie barked, "G.o.dd.a.m.n it!"

The acrid scent of gunpowder burned the air. Fear left Cannon breathless. He grabbed Yvette's shoulders, quickly looked her over, and other than wild eyes, parted lips and a pale face, she looked unhurt.

He turned for the kitchen-and pulled up short at the sight of Armie now holding the gun and still cursing a blue streak. On the seat of his jeans, toward the right side, blood seeped through the torn denim.

The wound didn't look bad; Armie stood straight, not hunched in pain. His gun hand was steady, his feet braced.

"Armie?"

"I'm okay." Without taking his gaze off the two men, he asked, "Yvette?"

In a shaky voice, she said, "I'm fine."

With the worst of the fear over, the cold fury set in. Cannon told Yvette, "Stay put, okay?" and after her nod, he joined his friend.

"Move," Armie told the two men. "Please, make one f.u.c.king move."

Heath, his head shaved, his face covered in whiskers and what looked like a stick-on tribal tattoo, lay on his back gasping for breath, his arm held close to his side.

Battered, with blood blooming on his chest, his stomach, his shoulder, Whitaker moaned. His nose was swollen, his gla.s.ses gone, his spa.r.s.e hair sticking out like the fuzzy feathers on a baby bird.

Armie worked his jaw. "Call-" he gestured, undecided "-somebody. Cops, ambulance. Whatever. That one-" he pointed at Whitaker "-got the brunt of it. Not sure he'll make it. And this one-" he toed Heath's thigh, making him moan "-pretty much came to the rescue, but look at the stalkerish b.a.s.t.a.r.d, all disguised and s.h.i.t."

From behind them, Yvette whispered, "I called 911 and Margaret."

Crouching down, Cannon checked each man for weapons. Heath had a brand-new box cutter in one pocket, a bottle of pain pills in the other. He looked pasty with agony, down for the count, but Cannon didn't trust him.

Even when he'd called, claiming he'd go away, he had to have been nearby. Probably surveilling the house.

Waiting for a chance to get Yvette.

"Watch him."

"Gladly."

He turned to Whitaker. The man seemed to be fading fast, the pool of blood expanding around him on the floor, his eyes glazed, unseeing.

Wishing for a way to spare her, Cannon twisted to Yvette.

She stood only partially in the connected dining room, her bottom lip caught in her teeth.

"Did you tell them to bring an ambulance?"

Eyes still round, she nodded. "I..." She pointed to the cabinet. "I could get some towels?"

Tears dampened her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. Amazing. "Yeah, that'd be great." If she was up for helping, then maybe staying busy would make this easier on her. She wasn't a dummy. She, too, had to realize the significance of Heath being here now. But she forged on anyway.

He'd underestimated her so many times. Never again.

Rushing to the cabinet, she kept her attention off Heath and on Whitaker as she dug out a stack of hand towels.

Cannon finished checking over the lawyer. No other weapons, but he took his cell phone and that note from Mindi. It wasn't signed, but surely they could match her writing.

Heath whispered, "Yvette?"

Face carved of stone, she kept her back to him.

"I'm sorry, baby. For everything."

Cannon saw her bottom lip start to quiver, and he stood to put his arm around her. To Heath, he said, "If you actually have it in you to care, leave her alone."

Heath closed his eyes, gave one short nod-and pa.s.sed out.

Whitaker made a gurgling sound...that didn't last. Cannon was pretty sure the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had just died.

"Here." Armie shoved the gun into Cannon's hand, s.n.a.t.c.hed up one of the dish towels and started off in a hobbling gait.

"What are you doing?"

He paused, head dropped forward, then grunted a laugh. "One of those flying bullets grazed my a.s.s. No, it's not bad, and yes, it hurts like h.e.l.l. So if you'll excuse me?"

Yvette whipped around. "Armie!"

"No, doll. I was joking about showing you mine just because I saw yours."

She squawked again, now for a different reason. "Armie."

Laughing, he told Cannon, "I'd seal the deal on that if I was you." Then he limped on down the hall and slammed the bathroom door.

Seconds later, the police, the ambulance and Lieutenant Margaret Peterson-Riske all showed up.