Page 74 of His Wall

His eyes came back to mine.

What was on his face was worse than anger. I had seen it once before — on Torres, in the hospital, on the second morning, when he had understood what my judgment had cost him. The look of a man realizing someone he trusted was never what they seemed.

He said nothing.

The vinyl was still on the turntable from this morning. The runout groove clicked against the inside of the label, slow, four times, five.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket.

I pulled it out.

Torres

I heard something happened downtown. Are you okay? Please call me.

I silenced it. I put the phone on the counter face down.

The phone rang again. Different ringtone. The Bureau channel.

I picked it up.

"Calder."

"Brooklyn. I'm sending you the address now. Safe house, two-bedroom, third floor above a laundromat on Fourth. Already swept. Bureau-maintained. The forensic team is at the garage. Trace on the number is running. Get him there within the hour."

"Copy."

"Calder. Is he with you?"

"He is."

"Get moving."

She hung up.

I looked up at Julian.

"We need to move."

"I am not going anywhere with you."

"Julian — "

"I am not going anywhere with you, Claire. Leah. Whatever your name is. I am not going anywhere with you."

"The man who fired that bullet knows where you live. He knows your routine. He knows what you have on him. You stay here, you die."

He looked at me.

He looked at the curtain I had drawn at the front window.

He looked at the bedroom.

He picked up his jacket from the back of the couch.

The drive to Brooklyn was thirty-eight minutes.

The Bureau had dropped a vehicle at the curb on Twelfth — a black sedan with municipal plates. I drove. He sat in the passenger seat.