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Myron nodded for him to go ahead.
“It was an accident.”
“An accident?”
“Turant meant to kill Bo. Bo and Jordan lived together. It was dark.”
“Bo was home at the time,” Grace added. “He heard a commotion and ran.”
“You know the rest. Joey the Toe gets arrested. Bo testifies against him. Suddenly we are all on the run from the mob. Grace and I make sure Bo has a new identity, and then”—Greg turned and looked at Grace—“we just followed our original plan.”
Myron nodded slowly. “And you faked your death.”
Silence.
“Why?”
“That’s not really your business, Myron.” Greg shifted in his chair, suddenly agitated. “Why are you here anyway? Why couldn’t you just let us be?”
“Because the feds came to me looking for you. Do you know Cecelia Callister?”
“She was murdered, right?”
“Did you know her?”
“A little, a long time ago. She was friends with Emily. We went out a couple of times as couples.”
“Anything more?”
“Like?”
“Like, anything more. Like, did you sleep with her? Like, when was the last time you saw her?”
“I didn’t touch her, and I haven’t seen her in years.”
“Because your DNA was found at the crime scene.”
Greg froze. “Are you serious?”
“No, I’m being funny. I tracked you down and did all this because I thought it might make a good comedy bit.”
“I don’t get it,” Greg said. “How could my DNA be at her murder scene?”
“You tell me.”
“It has to be a mistake.”
“They found it under the victim’s fingernails.”
“My DNA? Bullshit. I mean, absolute and utter bullshit. They’re lying to you.”
“Who? The cops? Wait, why would the cops lie?”
Silence.
“And why did you fake your death? You just let everyone who cares about you think you were dead.”
Greg chuckled then. “Who cares about me?”
