“He thinks you’re in Canada,” Gregory said. “He sent five men to Montreal yesterday.”

“Then why are you here?” I asked.

“Because I remembered,” he said. “I remembered the tax receipt you filed for this property under your sister’s maiden name three years ago. You thought I didn’t notice, but I did.”

I looked at him closely, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the dirt on his boots.

He was telling the truth, but he was also desperate.

“I am not coming back, Gregory,” I said.

“I’m not asking you to,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the empty road. “I need your help. Just ten minutes. Let me inside. It’s freezing.”

I unlatched the chain and stepped back, keeping my hand in my pocket, wrapped around the grip of the Walther.

Gregory walked in, shivering, and stood on the rug by the door, dripping water onto the linoleum.

He did not look like an underboss; he looked like a man who had been running for his life.

“He’s going to kill me, Clara,” Gregory said, staring at the floor. “He thinks I helped you leave. He thinks we’re in league.”