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Peter’s face flushes red as he leans forward in the witness chair. The veins in his neck and forehead pop in unison as he yells even louder. “I’m not a monster! I’ve made mistakes, but I’m not a monster! I’m certainly no killer. How could you —”

  Suddenly he stops. Peter clutches his arm.

  Then his chest.

  He staggers to his feet and stumbles off the witness stand. Directly in front of the jury box his body folds, collapsing to the floor with a horrific thud.

  The elderly juror on the end of the first row lets go with a scream. The entire courtroom stands to see what just happened.

  Peter’s lying flat on his back, his face contorted in extreme pain. His eyes are open, full of fear.

  “Help . . . me . . . ,” he sputters.

  The first to reach him is the court clerk, followed by Gordon Knowles.

  “He’s having a heart attack!” Knowles shouts.

  Everyone spills forward. Someone shouts, “Give him some air! He needs air!”

  Knowles barks, “What he needs is a doctor!”

  That’s when I realize I haven’t moved from the first row behind the prosecution table. I’m a statue, frozen. It’s as if I’ve forgotten that I’m a cardiac surgeon.

  But others around me haven’t.

  I look over at the jury in time to see heads turning from Peter on the ground to me still in my seat.

  Peter looks helpless. Harmless.

  I look cold. Heartless.

  Like I’m the monster in this courtroom.

  Even Nolan Heath finally calls out, “Katherine? Can you help?”

  I can’t. I know the Hippocratic oath by heart and still I don’t move. All I can do is watch. Stare. I feel paralyzed from the neck down.

  Until, through the sea of legs gathered around Peter, a space opens for a second, just long enough for our eyes to meet. It happens so fast I’m sure no one sees it—except the one person who’s supposed to.

  Me.

  Peter winks.

  Chapter 116

  ELLEN PIERCE wasn’t about to miss Peter Carlyle’s big day in court, hopefully his total humiliation. She expected a spectacle but certainly not like this. One minute he’s lying his ass off on the witness stand, the next he’s lying on the floor.

  A heart attack?

  It certainly seemed that way, especially when the EMS guys showed up and took some quick vital signs. Within minutes they had Carlyle strapped to a gurney and were wheeling him out of the courthouse.

  “What hospital will they take him to?” she asked a guard out in the hallway. She could barely hear her own voice above the commotion. Photographers were tripping over themselves to snap pictures. Front page, anyone?

  “They’ll probably take him to St. Mary’s Hospital,” answered the guard. “It’s the closest.”

  He was right.

  In less than eight minutes Ellen was stepping out of a taxi and into the hospital’s crowded emergency room.

  No one asked if she needed help. That was the beauty of New York City. Too many people to notice any one person.

  Ellen looked around the bustling emergency room, a full three-sixty degrees. An ice pack here, a bandage there. The only grisly sight was a construction worker at the counter with blood dripping from his fingertips. His hand was wrapped, but from her angle Ellen could see the problem. Ouch! He’d been caught on the wrong side of a nail gun.

  For good measure she spun around again, another three-sixty degrees. No sign of Peter Carlyle, though. Did they take him to a different hospital?

  No.

  The rush of air from the sliding doors opening behind her hit her in the back. She turned to see the EMS guys from the courtroom wheeling in Carlyle. Leave it to a New York City cabdriver to beat an ambulance, sirens and all.

  Ellen quickly stepped to the side as two nurses met the EMS guys. The gurney never slowed down. In fact, as the nurses took over they began to jog. No time to waste! Got to save this scumbag’s life.

  Ellen trailed them down a corridor, spying as Peter was stripped of his clothes and Rolex while being prepped for an EKG. Then they all disappeared into a room and drew the curtains on the observation window.

  What now?

  The thought of following Carlyle again immediately took Ellen back to Nassau and Billy Rosa’s bar. She would never forget how close to death she’d come when that mystery bastard opened fire on her on that dirt road. Even now she swore she could still taste the dust in her mouth.

  It didn’t matter what the verdict in the trial was, guilty or not guilty. She was going to find out how and why Carlyle was meeting up with that man. That was the key to everything; she was almost sure of it. Another one of her gut instincts.

  But first things first. Carlyle. His health.

  Ellen thought about waiting a bit before flashing her badge and pumping the closest doctor for some info. Was Carlyle truly having a heart attack? Was it something else? Or maybe it was nothing at all? A false alarm?

  At this point she was putting nothing past the guy. But as eager as she was to find out, she knew that was a risky gambit. She’d just come off suspension, after all. No way she should approach a doctor in the ER.

  Besides, suddenly she had a much better idea.

  Chapter 117

  I KEEP TELLING MYSELF: no regrets.

  With Peter being held overnight for observation at St. Mary’s Hospital, Nolan Heath spells out the options in his office this afternoon. It’s his call, of course, and I can tell he’s inclined to proceed with the trial. But he wants my input—my vote on this is important to him. As Nolan told me when we first met, “This may be my job, but it’s your life. I never forget that.”

  So he makes it very clear that he could demand and probably get a mistrial.

  “But we have to be careful what we ask for, Katherine. The odds for conviction go down considerably in a retrial,” he says.

  “And if you don’t ask for a mistrial?”

  “Then I’m sure the defense will rest. After closing statements, it will be in the hands of the jury. At this point it’s irrelevant whether your ex-husband faked a heart attack or not—the jury won’t be told either way. All they’ll know is what they saw. Could it influence them? Sure. Could it make them ignore all the evidence? I would sincerely hope not.”

  Then he tosses in the monkey wrench, the x factor, and explains why he wants to make sure I fully understand all the ramifications of my decision.

  Money.

  “The risk of proceeding, of course, goes beyond Carlyle’s being acquitted. He’ll sue you for defamation of character, claiming irreparable harm to his law career. He’ll probably win, too. The only question would be how much money he could extract from you.”

  Heath looks at me from behind his tidy desk. He works as he dresses: neatly. I can tell he’s expecting me to ask questions, really mull things over.

  Screw that, though.

  Screw Peter.

  “I’m alive. Try as he certainly did, that’s the one thing Peter couldn’t extract from me,” I say. “As far as another trial goes, there’s not enough money in the world to make me go through this again. In other words, whatever I might have to pay Peter, it would be a bargain. I don’t care about the money.”

  “Are you sure, Katherine?” asks Heath. “Sometimes in the heat of things people make snap decisions they later regret.”

  I don’t hesitate. Not for a moment. “Yes, I’m sure. No regrets.”

  Chapter 118

  THE JURY DELIBERATED for three long days, and the wait was nearly impossible for our family. On Friday afternoon at a quarter to five, the foreman informed Judge Barnett with a folded note that they had reached a unanimous verdict. Apparently justice had weekend plans.

  “What do you think, Mom?” asks Ernie on our way to the courthouse. I’d told him that the only way he could attend the verdict was if it somehow occurred after school.

  Sure enough . . .

  “I think I have no idea, that’s what I thin
k,” I tell him in the back of our speeding cab.

  I’m serious—I really don’t know what to expect. I’ve got no gut feeling about the outcome and whether it will have any connection to justice as I see it.

  Neither does Nolan Heath. “It makes me laugh when those pundits on TV predict a verdict based on how long the jury was out,” he tells me on the phone. “Truth is, they don’t know squat, and neither do I.”

  Ernie and I take our seats up front in the courtroom. I’m amazed at the buzz in the air. It’s electric.

  Only when Judge Barnett appears do things settle down. Assuming his perch on the bench, he grabs his favorite gavel and bangs the gallery into silence.

  With the slightest of nods he instructs the court clerk to let in the jury.

  As they shuffle to their assigned seats, I do something I haven’t done the entire trial. I steal a glance over at Peter. He was conveniently absent during the closing arguments, the implication being that he was recuperating from his apparent heart attack.

  Surprise, surprise—he’s well enough to be on hand after the jury’s made its decision.

  There’s a part of all this that still feels like an out-of-body experience to me. I mean, how did it happen? How did I get here?

  How could I have been so stupid as to fall in love with handsome and charming and very evil Peter Carlyle? He’s a murderer, for God’s sake.

  One of these days I’m sure I’ll stop beating myself up over it. Nothing that a few dozen sessions in Mona’s office can’t fix, right?

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” asks Judge Barnett. Talk about the ultimate rhetorical question.

  The jury foreman stands up slowly. Should that tell me anything? “Yes, we have, Your Honor.”

  The court clerk delivers the verdict to Judge Barnett. The man must be one hell of a poker player, because his face gives absolutely nothing away as he reads it to himself.

  Then he nods at the foreman—a CPA, I’m told. He looks nervous. Not as nervous as I am, though. Not as nervous as Peter, I hope.

  I take Ernie’s hand and squeeze it hard. Here we go. Get him—take down Peter!

  “In the case of the State of New York versus Peter James Carlyle . . .”

  Chapter 119

  JUDGE BARNETT’S COURTROOM explodes with one giant gasp and Nolan Heath reaches out for me. Meanwhile, I’m hugging Ernie—for all the wrong reasons.

  Gordon Knowles is pumping fists with the rest of his defense team, then he turns to Peter and plasters him with a hug. Just watching the two of them makes me sick. I’m also numb.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” says Ernie. “It’s not right. He tried to kill us.”

  I barely hear him. All I want to do is keep holding him tightly.

  So this is it? This is how it ends? Peter gets away with it. He killed Jake, and he tried to kill the rest of us.

  That’s all I can think.

  Meanwhile, Ernie lets go of me.

  Sidestepping out into the aisle, he walks straight up to Peter. He taps him on the back. What is he doing? As Peter turns around, little Ernie winds up his right leg and kicks him hard in the groin. Good!

  And just like that, I’m no longer numb. I feel everything. But most of all . . . I feel fine. Better, anyway. I almost start to laugh.

  Maybe it’s watching Peter buckle over, the look of intense pain rippling across his face. Or maybe it’s Ernie’s look of satisfaction as he turns back to me.

  All I know is that compared to what we’ve been through, today is a drop in the ocean.

  This isn’t it.

  This isn’t how it ends.

  Haven’t I learned anything?

  The boat trip was about a family that needed to come together again. My family. And that’s just what happened, in ways we never could have imagined.

  Nothing will ever change that. The Dunnes are going to be okay. We’re a family again, and we’ve never been stronger, tougher, more together.

  Chapter 120

  IT TOOK TWO HOURS before the ache from Ernie’s kick to the crotch finally subsided. A small price, Peter figured. Especially with the big payday to come.

  It came.

  Much faster than he thought, too.

  In less than a month, Peter went from being an almost-free man with money to being an almost-free man with oodles of money. Once he filed his civil suit, he fully expected an out-of-court settlement. What he didn’t expect was that Katherine would roll over so easily—and for so much. Big whoop that he didn’t get her entire fortune. Sixteen million still bought a lot of champagne.

  It was time to celebrate.

  “C’mon, let’s go out and hit the town,” said Peter, sitting up in Bailey’s bed. The days and nights at the Alex Hotel were over. “I’ll take you to any restaurant you want. I can’t wait to be out on the town with you.”

  Bailey snapped the elastic on his boxers, his only stitch of clothing. “I already ordered Chinese, silly. I want my moo shu pork.”

  Peter shot her a dubious look. “You’re still hung up on our being seen together, aren’t you? I keep telling you, it’s not a problem anymore. I’m innocent. I’m free as a bird. Justice was done in that courtroom, thank God.”

  “I know, I know. Just give me a little more time with that, okay? I’m not quite ready yet to see my picture splashed on Page Six of the Post.”

  “I am,” said Peter. “Then everyone will know how incredibly beautiful you are—and how lucky I am.” He leaned over, stroking her cheek. “Hey, why don’t we get out of the city, take a vacation somewhere? We could leave tomorrow. Dare I suggest the Caribbean?”

  “You’re forgetting something,” said Bailey. “My classes.”

  “Skip ’em.”

  “Easy for you to say, Mr. Sixteen-Million-Dollar Man.”

  “What good is all that money if I have no one to spend it on? Think about it.”

  “Oooh, I like the sound of that. Maybe a trip is a good idea.”

  Bailey pressed her naked body tight against Peter. She was about to kiss him when the intercom buzzed. “Moo shu pork!” she declared with a giddy smile, practically leaping up from the sheets.

  Bailey wrapped herself in a plush white robe that had been draped over the leather chair by the window. As Peter looked on, he couldn’t help reminiscing about the time he had sat in that chair back when Katherine had just left for her trip. How could he ever forget that little dance Bailey had performed for him? And what happened next.

  “Do you want to eat in bed?” asked Bailey.

  “Sure,” said Peter. “And then some.”

  She walked out of the bedroom grinning and disappeared around the corner into the living room.

  When she returned moments later, however, there was no moo shu pork in her hands.

  Instead there was a gun at Bailey’s head.

  Chapter 121

  “GEE, I’M SORRY to barge in like this,” said Devoux, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  He nudged the lovely Bailey toward the edge of the bed, the long barrel of his gun’s silencer pressed tightly against her right temple. The harder he pressed, the more she cowered in fear and submitted to whatever he wanted.

  “For Christ’s sake, what are you doing?” demanded Peter.

  “You and I have some unfinished business, Counselor,” said Devoux.

  The words trembled out of Bailey’s mouth. “Peter, what’s going on? Who is this?”

  Devoux chuckled. “You mean you haven’t told her?”

  Peter wanted to play dumb. Deny! Deny! Deny! But there was no chance of that now. Devoux wasn’t fucking around.

  “Honey, I’ll explain everything,” said Peter, trying to calm Bailey.

  “You bet you will,” said Devoux. “You can begin by telling me where my money is.”

  Peter’s head snapped back in disbelief. “Your money?”

  “The back end, Counselor. You should’ve wired it by now, don’t you think? Where is it?”


  “What, are you crazy? You’re lucky you’re getting to keep the down payment. In case you haven’t been reading the papers, things didn’t go exactly as planned.”

  With a quick shove, Devoux sent Bailey flying onto the bed. His gun had a new target now—the space right between Peter’s eyes. “Yes, and in case you’re blind, this really isn’t a negotiation,” he said. “I’m here for my money.”

  Peter raised his palms in the air. “Okay, okay. You can have your money.” He nodded at Bailey’s laptop, a black Mac-Book on the desk in the corner. “I can wire it right now.”

  “Good answer,” said Devoux with a satisfied grin. “There’s just one little twist. You’re going to be wiring a little bit more than what we agreed to.”

  Peter blinked hard. He couldn’t stand feeling this helpless. Or taken. “How much?” he asked.

  “Well, let’s see—what was that number I read in the papers? Was it sixteen million?”

  “Now I know you’re crazy,” said Peter. “I’d sooner die than give you all the money.”

  Devoux’s grin widened. “I actually believe you, Counselor. That was a risk all along, wasn’t it?” He cocked his gun. “That’s why it’s always good to have a Plan B.”

  Slowly he swung his arm over to Bailey.

  “Oh, please God, no,” she begged, retreating to the headboard and hugging it.

  “I’m with you, pretty lady,” said Devoux. He turned to Peter. “So how about it, Counselor? A change of heart, perhaps? Or does the pretty girlfriend die?”

  Peter looked over at Bailey, the sheer terror in her eyes. Why had he had to meet her? Why did he have to feel something for her?

  She was trembling, a mess. All because of him.

  Fuck!

  The jig was up. Absolutely. He had no choice, none whatsoever.

  Or did he?

  Getting up from the bed, he walked to Bailey’s computer. “Easy come, easy go,” he said.

  He logged onto his bank in the Caymans, entering the code and password for his numbered account. With a few more keystrokes he prepared a transfer of $16 million. Every zero he typed was like a punch to the gut.