“The other guy?”

“Yes,” Agent Carson said, “it would seem one of the Gentlemen Thieves died of a heart attack on the rooftop of a building on Central. He had a fifty-caliber rifle in his hands, and it looked like he was getting ready to do some damage. It’s odd that he would just drop dead like that.”

Uncle Bob shifted in his chair.

“That is weird,” I said, biting my bottom lip. “I mean, wasn’t he pretty young?”

“Thirty-two,” she said. “And he just happened to have an uncle whose wife works at the branch that was robbed yesterday. Seems those three were in it together. Something about it being Edwards’s idea to blackmail his friends, certain members of the Bandits motorcycle club, in the first place. I don’t have all the details yet, but we have the uncle in custody. He’s filling in the blanks now.”

If my shock didn’t show that time, I was going to Hollywood. What a scumbag. Dad and Uncle Bob were busy looking elsewhere—too elsewhere—but no way could this work out so easily. Life wasn’t a stack of cards that just magically fell into place when dropped. Unless life was named David Copperfield.

That was it. I would name my life. The minute I came up with a name for my sofa, which might or might not go by the name of Sigourney Weaver, I would name my life. Now I had something to live for. And I had a decision to make, a big decision. What name would incorporate all that life entailed, every aspect of uncertainty, of beauty and surrealism and encounters with crazy people? It would have to speak of the ups and downs life had to offer, like being too broke for daily mocha lattes. If I lived through that, I could live through anything.

After another few minutes of conversation that had my head throbbing, the captain and Special Agent Carson left, but not before one last look back. Agent Carson smiled. The captain eyed me like he really, really, really wanted to get to the bottom of my involvement. That couldn’t be good.

I turned to Uncle Bob as we waited for the discharge papers. “This is all way too neat. Way too tidy. They’re going to figure out this couldn’t possibly have happened the way it looks, and I don’t want you in trouble.”

“Neat?” Dad asked. “Tidy? That is exactly the way they like it, pumpkin. All wrapped up in a bow. Trust me, it means less paperwork, and that’s always a good thing.” Dad helped me to my feet. “I got the phones at the office turned back on. And I had Sammy’s wife clean the place up.” He was bound and determined I’d move back into the offices above his bar.

“So, how are you?” I asked, pretending not to care.

A smile lit his eyes anyway. “I’m okay. It seems I don’t have cancer after all.” He looked around, then whispered, awe evident in his voice, “Did you have anything to do with that?”

I tried to smile. “No, Dad. I don’t have that kind of power.”

“It’s just—” He bowed his head. “It’s just, I had pancreatic cancer.”

His words sent a piercing pain through my heart.

“They did every test known to man, and I had it. Then after you found out, after you touched me in the office … well, it seems to have vanished.”

“When did I touch you?”

“You poked my chest with your index finger when you were chastising me for trying to shoot you.”

Oh, right. I only wished I could do cool stuff like that. “It wasn’t me, Dad. But I’m glad.”

“I’m glad, too,” he said, placating me. He didn’t believe me for a minute.

Gemma rushed in like a whirlwind on meth. “Well?” she asked, looking from Uncle Bob to Dad to Cookie, then finally at me. “What happened this time?”

After a long moment of contemplation, I said, “Fine, I’ll accept counseling, but only from you.”

“Charley, while I’m thrilled, completely and totally thrilled, I can’t treat you. That would be in violation of my code of conduct.”

“Screw the code. Get a new code. I can’t see anyone else without them trying to lock me away.” I clenched my teeth and said, “Grim reaper, Gem.”

She almost giggled in delight. “No, I know someone. I promise, it’ll be okay.”

“I swear, the minute they bring out a straitjacket, I’m crossing your name off my Christmas list.”

“Deal,” she said, a satisfied smirk on her face. “But if they do put you in a straitjacket, can I take your picture? You know, for research purposes?”

“Not if you value your cuticles.”

She jerked back her hands. “That’s just mean.”

I shrugged my brows. “You mess with the reaper, you get the scythe.”

“You don’t really carry a scythe.”

“So not the point.”

* * *

Before we went home, I had Cookie drive me to the convent. Dawn had just barely peeked on the horizon, but this was important. Quentin had to know he would be okay. That it was safe to go out. He needed that weight off his shoulders.

We were met by a very austere-looking mother superior, and I couldn’t help but wonder what qualifications it took to become the supreme mommy figure. Clearly a mean death stare was a prerequisite, but what else? Surliness? Advanced algebra?

She showed us into the kitchen again as Sister Mary Elizabeth brought Quentin down. He looked half asleep in his pajamas, and his hair had been trimmed, but it still brushed his shoulders. He rushed into my arms, then realized I was hurt.