In that moment of hesitation, he remembered the kiss he saw from the closet, and he made a decision that surprised even him: He wouldn’t kill her. Not as long as she made Byron happy.
He would hate her for the rest of his life, and himself for letting her live. But maybe there was another way to manage his pain.
He crawled back out of the same window he came in and made it to the car unseen. Once out of Triton and back on the interstate, he found his other way in the question: Isn’t Martin suffering, too?
NOW
MARTIN ALREADY KNEW they had nothing inside the backpack they could use to tie Ethan up. But he couldn’t leave him like he was, either. Eventually, he’d wake up. He’d catch up to them or go left where they went right and maybe never find his way out.
Then Martin had an idea. He pulled the laces out of Ethan’s shoes and bound his hands to his feet. When Ethan woke up, he’d be pissed and unable to do more than bounce around on his ass. But at least Martin would know where to find him after he got help.
He left Ethan’s flashlight on the ground and facing him so at least he wouldn’t wake up in darkness.
THEN
ETHAN SPED HOME from Triton and went straight to bed, stopping only long enough to throw the knife into the kitchen sink. He was exhausted and could think about nothing but meeting Martin tomorrow night for a beer.
Six-thirty at Gunshot Pop’s. The routine had become so usual that neither bothered to confirm anymore. The only days they didn’t meet were when Martin was out of town, or Diane was putting up a fuss because her fiancée wasn’t around as much as she wanted him to be.
He climbed into bed and knotted the blankets around himself to keep warm. Then, after an all-too-short nap, he awoke and walked to the bank.
His eyes were bloodshot; he worked slowly all day. At some point late in the afternoon, a teller to his right asked, “What’s the matter with you?”
“None of your fucking business.”
The customer at his window raised an eyebrow and, on her way out, stopped in Mr. McDonald’s office.
“Mr. Lancaster!”
Ethan looked around his new customer—a man with too many freckles and a bad toupee—to see the woman he’d just served walking out the front door.
In the doorway to his office stood Ronald McDonald. His hands were planted on his hips, his face contorted with anger. “Get in here, now!”
Ethan nodded but said nothing. He quickly finished with his customer and met the fat fucking clown in his office. “What?”
McDonald’s fingers were drumming quickly on the marble desk. “Did you swear in front of one of our customers?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Well, try.” Ethan said nothing, and once McDonald had grown sick of the silence, he stood and pointed a finger at Ethan. “Don’t ever do it again. Don’t ever swear at another customer again. Because if you do, you’ll be fired immediately, you hear me? I don’t care whose damn son you are, our customers don’t come in here expecting to hear that sort of language.”
“But it’s okay for you to curse?”
“You’re damn right it’s okay for me to swear. I’m in charge of this branch, and there’s not a customer in the room, which means I can swear all I feel like.” Then he seemed to notice the dark circles around Ethan’s bloodshot eyes. “What’s the matter with you, anyway?”
I was up late last night, attempting to whack my ma. You want me to take you down, too?
“Answer me.”
“I just didn’t sleep so good, all right?”
McDonald shook his head. “I swear it’s hard to believe you’re Mr. Lancaster’s son. . . . Now get back to your post before I say something I’ll regret.”
Ethan returned to his window without a word. But before he left for the day, Mr. McDonald handed him a sealed letter and said, “One of two.”
Ethan read the official complaint on his way out of the door. He knew why McDonald had typed it up—he was creating a paper trail, one that gave him the leeway to fire Ethan at his discretion.
He balled up the document and tossed it in a wastebasket outside the bank doors. As if bagging groceries wouldn’t be just as interesting, he thought, and then turned toward the bar. Besides, he had more important things on his mind than McDonald’s petty threat.
He wanted to know more about Martin’s father. Anything he could find out. It was clear the first step to helping Martin overcome his pain (and, in turn, his own) was to find the fucker who ran out on him. To do that, though, he would need all the information he could get.
Ethan entered the dark, smoke-filled bar and sat down at their usual table. Martin hadn’t yet arrived, but that was no reason to wait on their order. “Same as always,” he told the waitress. She brought him a pitcher of beer.
He finished his first mug quickly, and, after pouring his second, saw Martin come in. He nodded—the only indication that he recognized his friend—and then saw that Martin wasn’t alone. There was a woman with him.
She had a flat, narrow face and a pointy nose. A long purple dress ran from her shoulders to her ankles; it was loose and buried under a coat, so he couldn’t tell what sort of figure she had.
“This must be the famous Ethan Lancaster,” she said when she sat down.
“I take it you’re Diane.”
She nodded. Martin pulled a third chair over. Then, with all three crowded around the two-top, he shrugged an apology in Ethan’s direction. “She wanted to meet you.”
She stretched a hand over the table, waited until Ethan shook it. “I did, indeed. I like to meet all of Martin’s friends.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“I have to make sure he’s not cheating on me.” She laughed like she’d made a joke—nobody was fooled. After the laughter
