And just like that, Andy’s first high departed as quickly as it arrived. Nearly all of the euphoric haze he was revelling in (moments ago? ages ago?) disappeared upon taking sight of the bloated corpse. But as if for good measure, any last remnants of that smoky-sweet feeling dove out of him in a bit of perfect choreography with the half-digested ham sandwich he had for lunch. In the days to come, he thought with irony that if only high school bullies’ modus operandi was stealing lunches (like the primary school bullies had done to him—sadly, victimhood found him at an early age), he might have been spared both the pain inflicted by his swollen black eye and the humiliation of his public vomiting.

20 years later, the warm red flush of embarrassment again returned to Andy’s face as he gazed down at what for all he knew could have been the same ham sandwich from that defining adolescent afternoon. Perhaps it was the memory, perhaps the sticky patch of inky blood now expanding underneath his brother-in-law’s head; Regardless, whatever induced his painful heaving, Andy’s reverie was brought to an abrupt end and he found himself left with sandpaper in his throat, a dead man at his feet, one daughter in the hands of her mother’s killer, and another returning home from school in a few short hours—or so he prayed. He had just forty-eight hours to solve what felt like at least as many problems. Andy closed the front door and tried to think. His first coherent thought was that he needed to brush his teeth. Unable to come up with a better plan of attack, he made his way to the bathroom.
“Thank God for nannies,” Andy said to nobody in particular as he reached for the teddy bear-disguised video camera conspicuously placed on the bookshelf beside the living room TV. If I can identify the man on the other end of Leyland’s phone call, perhaps I can find him before he delivers Anna to the bastard, Andy thought. Calling the police was not an option. Leyland didn’t even have to say it. Get the police involved and Anna was as good as dead, assuming they don’t try to peg David’s murder on Andy, which given his luck, seemed more than likely.
Andy was searching for a way to plug the furry sentry into the television when his mobile issued its suddenly irritating ring. He let out a tired sigh as the caller ID came up on the tiny monochrome display.
“Marcus Rondel,” Andy intoned into the handset. He winced at the fresh cigar burn on his forearm. “I just came from a meeting with your older brother.”
“I know, Hiawatha, I know. We need to meet. Now.”