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He stared numbly at the TV screen, though the evening’s news cycle had already moved on to other topics.

Nearly two years of work, two years of Archie’s life gone. Just like that. Sure, they still had Cummings and Ronson, but Breland was the ringleader. Breland was the man with the plan. The guy with the contacts. Contacts to financial backers. Contacts to weapons dealers. Contacts to other like-minded groups—potential cells, potential threats. Cummings and Ronson were just foot soldiers.

“Finish that and I’ll drive you to the ER.” Beau’s voice jarred Archie from his joyless reflections.

He looked up—Beau’s face seemed a million miles away; his expression was somber, his blue eyes dark and undecipherable.

Archie shook his head. “Thanks. No. I’m fine.”

“Oh yeah, you’re great,” Beau drawled. “We can all swear to that.”

Archie glanced past Beau and saw he had the complete attention of an elderly bartender, built like bantamweight prize fighter, and the entire line of customer-occupied bar stools—three of whom had the unmistakable look of off-duty cops.

Right. Because in Twinkleton he was forever and always doomed to make a spectacle of himself, even when he was just minding his own business and looking for somewhere to grab a quick bite.

He said, “But I’d be grateful for a ride back to my hotel.”

Beau’s mouth curled a little, but he said, “Up to you.”

He moved away to the bar to pay his tab and Archie swallowed another mouthful of water and carefully stood up. He felt wobbly, off-balance—nothing new there, really—but otherwise okay. He just wanted to get back to the privacy of his room—

His cell rang.

The ring sounded shockingly loud, also strange and unfamiliar, as though it had been months since he’d had a phone call. Archie fumbled for his phone, answered automatically, and Deputy Assistant Director Wagner said, “Archie, I know it’s late, but I wanted to tell you before—”

“I just saw it on the news.”

Wagner burst out, “It’s a goddamned catastrophe and I’m demanding a thorough investigation.”

“Yes.”

Archie was on autopilot. But yes, an investigation was needed, no question. However, there was no reason to think this was anything more than what it appeared on the surface. The number of suicides occurring in federal prisons was about half the number of suicides in state prisons, but the numbers were still too high. Life behind bars was hard. Harder on some than others. And Breland hadn’t been the model of mental health before incarceration.

“There’s no denying this is a huge setback, but our case isn’t dead.”

“Sure.”

Not dead, no. On life support for sure. The government would get its convictions for the two remaining conspirators. Archie had no doubt. But the real prize. The prize that had been worth months of living in the lion’s den, of risking his life every single minute of every single day, of having to kill—

Yeah. That was forfeit.

Wagner’s faraway voice said, “I’m sorry, Archie. I know how difficult...”

“Not your fault,” he said brusquely.

Wagner cleared her throat. “Right. Well, we’ll talk when you get back. Just focus on getting on your feet again.”

“Yes. Will do.” Good thing they weren’t FaceTiming.

Wagner’s, “Good night” was subdued.

Archie clicked off his phone, shoved it in his pocket. When he glanced up, he saw Beau watching him from the bar.

Beau finished paying his bill and joined him. “Ready to go?”

Like he might want to stay for the floor show? Oh wait. He was the floor show.

Archie nodded and turned toward the door.