I sat in my comfortable chair, behind my comfortable desk in my comfortable office, feeling like a tomato that had just been dropped in a blender. The blades of shock and fear were still spinning, churning my guts and ripping at the few strands of composure I had left. I felt cold. I felt hot. I felt sick and faint. I had denied it, of course. When West asked if I was hurt, I told him the truth sugared with a lie. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine. No worries.” He’d studied me for seconds that seemed like hours, then nodded. He didn’t believe me. Why should he? I didn’t believe myself. West asked a few questions, praised Larry and Titus, then started for the door. “What are you going to do with Truccoli?” I asked. It was a shallow question with a deep need. What I wanted to hear was that he would be locked in some dark, rat-infested jail, but the small part of my mind that was still acquainted with logic knew better. “I’m going to have a long, long talk with him.” That had been thirty minutes before and my heart still flipped and fluttered, ricocheting off my rib cage.
