Royall reached for her hand, but Nola was still hunched, holding her stomach.
“I said get up. C’mon,” Royall repeated, gripping her by the armpit.
With a tug, Nola stood up straight.
Royall’s face went white.
“Um, Nola,” he said, pointing to the stain at the crotch of her jeans. “Why’re you bleeding?”
“I . . . I think I just got my period.”
30
Today
Zion told them everything.
He told them how he was contacted, how much he was paid, and admitted that, yes, two nights ago, in Colonel Mint’s driveway, he was the one who pulled the trigger on Mint and the valet. With tears and snot running down his face, he even told them about Black House.
“O-On my phone. Look at my phone!” Zion pleaded. “The pass code is my name! First name!”
With the camping saw digging into his throat, the metal teeth biting at his skin, Zion didn’t have much choice.
“Who else knows? Siblings? A girlfriend? Who’d you confide in?” Reagan asked, pulling the saw tighter.
“N-No one!” Zion insisted, still up on his tiptoes, Seabass’s grip unrelenting.
“I get very frustrated around liars, Zion.”
“No one! I wouldn’t do that to Mr. Vess! I-I swear on my mother . . . my father, too,” Zion pleaded. “You believe me, right?”
Reagan shot a look at Seabass.
Seabass nodded.
With a sharp tug, Reagan pulled hard with her left hand, then her right, the camping saw slicing a thin line into Zion’s throat. Windpipes are usually hard to penetrate, since they’re protected by cartilage and fibrous tissue. The camping saw tore through it all with ease.
Zion gasped, trying to scream, which was impossible with a severed trachea. Frothy yellow bile came up from his lungs.
Despite what Hollywood might make you think, there was no gruesome spray of blood. A thin red waterfall ran down his neck, pulsing with each heartbeat.
As the color ran from his face, Zion tried to fight, tried to grab at his own throat, thrashing wildly.
Seabass held tight until Zion’s head slumped sideways, then forward. Nothing but dead weight.
“His phone,” Reagan called out, pointing Seabass toward the living room, to a coffee table that held a new Samsung. Seabass made a face. Who carries a Samsung?
Following behind him, Reagan took out her own phone and dialed the number Mr. Vess had given her. It rang once . . . twice . . .
“Ellis Jewelers,” a man with an unforgiving Boston accent answered.
“Hey there. I’m looking for Darcy,” Reagan said.
“Sorry, Darcy’s at lunch. Can I take a message?”
Reagan paused. “Tell her A.D. called.” A.D. All done.
Message sent.
“You got it. Have a glorious day now,” the man replied. With a click, he was gone.
Reagan turned back to Seabass, who held up Zion’s Samsung.
Onscreen was a logo in a stenciled military font. “Black House,” Reagan read from the screen. Whattyaknow. The kid was telling the truth.
“Seabass, answer this,” she said, heading back toward the kitchen. “You think that guy who bought the Peter Tosh guitar would sell it to me so soon after the auction?”
Seabass rolled his eyes.