After several tense seconds, Bart reached out, plucked a small piece of lint off my trench coat, and casually flicked it away, a clear message that he could do the same thing to me. My gaze dropped to the gold rings on his hand, and he drew back and waggled his fingers at me in a mocking motion.

   “Well, at least your coat is nicer than your suit—and your manners,” Bart rumbled. “You take care now, Mr. Cheap Suit.”

   The giant deliberately drove his shoulder into mine, almost knocking me down with his enormous strength. His two goons grinned and moved past me. The three of them thumped down the front-porch steps and crossed the yard, heading toward their SUV at the far end of the street.

   They’d be back tonight, though, just like Bart the Butcher had promised.

   Inside the house, the mourners kept eating, drinking, and talking, oblivious to the drama out on the porch. Isabelle, Paul, and I watched the black SUV turn around in the cul-de-sac before driving back down the street and disappearing from sight.

   Isabelle let out a tense breath and wrapped her arms around herself, but she couldn’t hold back the frightened shudder that rippled through her body.

   Paul turned to her. “Izzy, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but if I can just bet on the games this weekend, I promise you I can win back Peter’s money—”

   She whipped around and slammed her palm into his chest, knocking him away from her. “Get out of my sight,” she growled. “Right now. Before I call Wilcox back and tell him to go ahead and beat your miserable, lying ass.”

   “But Izzy—” he started again, still pleading with her.

   “Get out!” she hissed, shoving him with both hands now. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

   Paul stumbled away from her, but he still didn’t leave. “But I’m your family. I promised Peter that I would watch out for you and little Leo if anything ever happened to him—”

   Isabelle stabbed her finger at him. “You are not my family. Not anymore. You are a degenerate gambler who refuses to get help. It makes me sick to think of all the time, energy, and money Peter spent paying off your debts and sending you to rehab over and over again, when it’s obvious that you just don’t want to get better. He was a good man that way, always putting other people before himself. Well, guess what? I’m not as good as he was, and I’m not going to let you drag my son and me down with you. I’ll pay off as much of your debt to Wilcox as I can, since that’s what Peter would have wanted. But you’re on your own from this moment on. And don’t you ever come back here again. Do you understand me?”

   Paul looked at her with a dumbfounded expression.

   “Do you understand me?” Isabelle hissed again.

   “Yeah, I understand you, all right.” The giant’s face hardened into an ugly sneer. “You always were an uppity bitch who thought she was better than everyone else. I never understood what Peter saw in you anyway—”

   I stepped up, took hold of the giant’s left ear, and yanked it back and down as hard as I could. Paul yelped with pain, but I had pulled him off balance, and he couldn’t break my tight, bruising grip without causing himself even more pain, something he was too much of a wimp to do.

   “The lady asked you to leave,” I said. “I suggest you do that. Right now. Before I beat Wilcox to the punch and start hitting you myself.”

   I let go of his ear and shoved him away. Paul gave me a murderous look, as if he was thinking about taking a swing at me, but I stared him down the same way I had Wilcox. After a few seconds, when he realized that I wasn’t intimidated by his tall, giant frame, he straightened up and pulled down his suit jacket.

   “Fine,” he muttered. “I’m done here anyway.”

   He glared at Isabelle and me a final time, whirled around, and stomped down the porch steps and to the bottom of the lawn. He fired up an old, rusty pickup truck and peeled away from the curb as fast as he could, making his bald tires screech in protest.

   “Good riddance,” I muttered, and turned to Isabelle. “Are you okay?”

   She stared at me like I’d just said the stupidest thing ever. Maybe I had.

   “Look,” I said. “I heard what Wilcox said about you paying off Paul’s gambling debts, and I know that you don’t want to lose your house or the life-insurance money. I can help you with this, with all of it. All you have to do is trust me.”

   Isabelle laughed, but it was a harsh, bitter sound. “Like Peter trusted you? Like all the other guards who were murdered trusted you? Peter told me all about you and how happy you were that your long-lost mother was back in town. He thought she was a little too good to be true. So did everyone else at the bank, but since it was your mom and they all thought you were such a great guy, they let it slide. Peter trusted you, Finnegan Lane, and what did he get in return? A bullet in the head. So forgive me if I’m not in a hurry to make the same mistake my husband did.”

   Every word she said was like a dagger to my heart, but I forced myself to push aside my guilt and shame and focus on her.

   “I’m sorry for what happened to Peter and all the other guards,” I said. “Sorrier than you will ever know. And you’re absolutely right. It was my fault, my mistake, and I have to live with that for the rest of my life. But I can help you now. Please, please, let me help you.”

   She looked at me, fresh tears shining in her eyes, her face pinched tight with worry, fear, and dread. For a moment, she seemed to be wavering, but her lips pressed together into a hard, thin line, and she shook her head.

   “Forget it,” she snapped. “I don’t need your help. More important, I don’t want your help. I can take care of myself and my son. Right now, I have guests to see to. I’m sure you can find your own way out.”

   Isabelle gave me one more angry look, then stormed around the corner of the porch, yanked open the front door, and went back inside her house full of mourners.