Mason.
He wasn’t laughing. He looked sick. He waved off the offer of a ride in the limo.
“I’m going to walk a bit, clear my head,” I heard him say.
“Suit yourself, baby brother,” Dominic cheered. “Don’t have nightmares!”
The limo pulled away. Mason stood alone on the sidewalk. He lit a cigarette, his hand shaking so badly he dropped the lighter twice. He started walking down Fourth Street, heading toward the quieter part of town.
Perfect.
I moved out of the shadows, walking with a silent, rolling gait that made no sound on the pavement. I closed the distance. Fifty yards. Thirty. Ten.
He stopped at a corner, waiting for the light to change. There were no cars. Just him and the ghosts he was trying to drink away. I stepped up right behind him. I could smell the scotch sweating out of his pores. I leaned in close, my lips almost touching his ear.
