But I did not flinch.

I had spent four years calculating this exact moment.

I knew Arthur’s psychological profile better than his own mother did.

He was a bully, and bullies do not pull the trigger when they are losing their leverage.

“If you shoot me, you have nothing left to trade,” I said.

“The prosecutors already have the files.”

“The only thing that will change is the charge on your warrant.”

“First-degree murder of a federal witness carries the death penalty in this state, Arthur.”

He didn’t answer.

He was staring at my phone.

The green light on the screen began to pulse.

Then, his own phone in his breast pocket began to vibrate.

The heavy, dull buzz sounded like a trapped hornet against his chest.

He didn’t want to let go of me to answer it.

He nudged my head with the gun barrel.

“Take it out,” he ordered.

“Take my phone out of my pocket.”

“Slowly.”

I reached up with my free hand, my fingers sliding into his wet wool coat.

The fabric smelled of expensive cologne and damp city streets.