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light. There were alcohol wipes inside, along with a sewing kit, a package of sterile gauze, and a roll of cloth tape.
    I put it back and dug deeper.
    When my hand touched something metal, I wasn’t surprised. I knew exactly what I’d found.
    The gun was small, a twenty-two caliber with a twelve-round magazine. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it, except for the dull gray suppressor tube attached to the barrel.
    That stopped me.
    Before I went to jail, guns had been my business.
    I’d sold more weapons out of the trunk of my car than most legit dealers, and I made pretty good money at it, too. Not enough to retire on, but enough to get Vincent away from foster care.
    Now those days were gone, but I still knew about guns and the people who bought them, and I could think of only one reason someone would mount a silencer on a twenty-two.
    I held the gun in front of me and checked the safety, then I slid the clip out and counted the bullets.
    Two were missing.
    “Fuck.”
    I pushed the clip back in, then set the gun on the passenger seat. I stared at it for a while then searched the rest of the backpack.
    There was nothing else inside, so I turned the bag over and checked the side pockets.
    Inside, I found two stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills. The first had a paper band wrapped tight around the center of the stack. The amount printed on the band was $10,000. The second stack was unwrapped and smaller, but not by much.
    I ran my fingers back and forth over the bills.
    It was mesmerizing.
    I sat there and tried to figure out what to do next.
    The more I thought about it, the less I wanted to talk to Butch. At least not right away.
    Eventually, I put the car in gear and eased my way through the snow to building number three.
    All I needed was some time to think.

    I knocked on number thirteen and waited.
    Sara opened the door then turned and crawled into bed with her back to me. Two of the candles were burning in ashtrays on the nightstand. As I stepped inside, the flames flickered but they didn’t go out.
    “I’m going to get the bags.”
    Sara didn’t say anything.
    It took a couple trips to get them all. Once they were inside, I sat at the small table next to the window and kicked the snow off my boots.
    Sara rolled over and watched me.
    “Who do you think shot him?”
    “Why are you thinking about that?”
    “I can’t help it. He seemed like such a nice man.”
    “He wasn’t,” I said. “He was an asshole and a good actor.”
    “That’s a thing to say.” She watched me. “You promised me you were going to work on being a better person. Are you over that now?”
    “I’m working on it.”
    “Good, because it’s important to me, Nate. No more bad energy. Not anymore.”
    “I know.” I tried to change the subject. “Why don’t you tell me who you think shot him? What’s your theory?”
    She watched me for a moment longer then turned away and said, “What bothers me is why he didn’t want to go to a doctor. He must’ve known how bad he was hurt.”
    “Maybe he couldn’t risk it. Maybe the police were after him.”
    “I doubt that.”
    “You never know about people and their secrets,” I said. “We didn’t know the guy. He could’ve been anyone.”
    “I like to think I’m a good judge of character. I can tell if—” She looked at me and frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “What’s so damn funny?”
    “Not a thing.”
    “Then why are you smiling?”
    “I didn’t realize I was.”
    “Well, you were, and I wish you’d stop. That man is dead out there, Nate. Murdered.” She paused. “Do you really think that’s funny?”
    “Of course not.”
    “What did the guy in the office say when you told him?”
    “I didn’t tell him.”
    “Why not?”
    “He wasn’t there.”
    “Then go back later and tell him.”
    I started to explain then I stopped and tossed Syl’s backpack on the bed at Sara’s feet.
    “What’s this?”
    “His