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An odd arrangement—but as satisfying a business relationship as I could want.
    As for strengthening that relationship by working alongside him, though…that wasn’t a step I was ready to take. Trusting Jack as my mentor was one thing; trusting him as a partner was another. And I definitely didn’t want to get involved with more hitmen.
    Yet the promise of Jack’s offer started gnawing at my gut the moment he walked away. Maybe this was what I needed. What I did for the Tomassinis served its purpose—stamping out the fire for a little while. Between hits, I had my skydiving and rappelling and white-water rafting. But that was like taking medication for a cold—temporarily covering the symptoms while doing nothing to cure the root problem. And if there was a cure, maybe this was it. To do what I’d failed to do twenty years ago, for Amy.
    Or was that just an excuse? Telling myself I wanted to pursue a cure when all I really wanted was to scratch the itch?
    As I started hauling logs out for the evening fire, I considered putting an end to the matter right there—starting the blaze with the ticket and fake passport. But I didn’t. I set up the logs, letting Mitch help when he came out, then left him in charge of fire burning while I excused myself.
    I headed to my room and locked the ticket and passport inside my safe. Then I announced the bonfire and gathered volunteers to help me carry out supplies from the kitchen.
     
    Conversation around the fire soon turned to cop talk, at the instigation of the corporate trio. That was to be expected. Put a law-enforcement group in a social setting with civilians, and it’s never long before the civilians start asking, “What’s the biggest case you’ve ever worked?” The trio had avoided such questions all day, curiosity warring with consideration—knowing these guys were on vacation—but when the beer started flowing, the queries came, and so did the anecdotes.
    Usually, I love these war-story bonfires even more than my guests do. It’s like curling up with a cup of hot chocolate and a warm blanket. I’m transported back to my childhood, wedged between my father and one of my uncles or cousins at some get-together, listening to their stories of life on the force—more heroic and exhilarating to me than any tales of knights and dragons.
    Today, it was like settling in with my cocoa and blanket…and finding the milk curdled and the wool rough and scratchy. Now the stories only served to remind me that I wasn’t part of that life and never would be again.
    I’d learned to deal with my grief, and most of the time, I truly did love my new life. But tonight the old impulse was gnawing at me, along with that plane ticket in my bedroom.
    Jack was right. Between the two of us, we had the skills to find a hitman turned serial murderer. He knew that underground world better than any federal agent. And me? I didn’t just know how to be a cop; I knew how to be a killer.
    “You were on the force when that happened, weren’t you, Nadia?”
    I looked up from picking the black crust off my burned marshmallow. It took a moment to remember which story someone had been recounting.
    “The Don Valley rapist? Yep. I wasn’t in that division, though.”
    The corporate trio turned to look at me.
    “You were a cop?” one—Bruce—said.
    I nodded.
    “Retired,” Mitch amended.
    Bruce laughed. “Retired? Already? You can’t be much more than thirty—let me guess. Struck it big in the dotcom explosion, and got out before the implosion, right?”
    I laughed with him.
    “The rest of us just come out here to look, drool and dream,” Mitch said. “Seven more years, Stafford, and I’m buying that woodlot down the road, building a lodge of my own and putting you out of business. You watch.”
    A few others joined in, joking about retirement plans, partly in earnest, partly to steer conversation away from me. I appreciated the gesture, but one of the first lessons I’d learned when