Page 112 of The Dead Come to Stay

“Ge’ off me!” he squealed as she cuffed him.

“Just a hard-working security guard,” she said. “You have the right to remainfuckingsilent, you son of a bitch.”

MacAdams removed the cartridge. Touching the steel turned him cold. Illegal handgun, semiautomatic.

“You’re under arrest,” he said.

“Fuck off!”

“Big words from someone on his belly,” Green replied.

“Leave him for Uniform,” MacAdams said. “He’s not going anywhere, and it’s Burnhope we want.”

“Fuck ’im too,” the man spit. “King Dick up there with his girlies. Wouldn’tbe’ere otherwise!”

“Girls? What girls?” Green demanded, leaning on him again.

“Ge’ off me, for chrissakes!The foreign one and the nosy American—”

***

MacAdams would never be able to describe the sensation; like ice water, like skin shrink-wrapped to bone. He didn’t need to be told; heknew. Upstairs, Jo Jones was alone with a murderer.

Again.

Burnhope’s office was on the eleventh floor. They needed to get therebeforeall of Newcastle police came screaming down the motorway. If Burnhope knew they were coming, it could turn into a hostage situation. Or worse.Don’t think that.What in hell did Burnhope want with Jo?

But of course, he knew:Jo knew that Burnhope wasn’t Foley.

What was his plan? To buy her silence? That was a biological impossibility; Jo told the truth. Even when she shouldn’t. He wasn’t sure she could do otherwise.

A bright spark, an unsinkable, unshakable, infuriating miracle of a human—and Burnhope wanted to shut her up. Man with a clean record, golden boy of Newcastle, how far would he go? He’d murdered someone already—broke the most sacred of laws. And once broken...

MacAdams ran for the lift, but the buttons were locked down.

“There must be a work-around,” Green said.

“No time!Stairs!”

He burst through the rear door and into a copy of the steps he’d climbed in York. He’d take them three at a time.

Chapter 32

Jo stared at the man who was not Foley.

“You—whoareyou?” she asked, backing away from him.

“I’m trying to fix things,” he said through tight teeth. “Tohelp.” He had settled Lina back onto the sofa and given her Jo’s untouched tea.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Jo said.

He took a breath. “I can explain everything, but I can’t do it now—”

“Yes, you absolutely can.” She had put the sofa between them.

“All right, fine. My name is Stanley Burnhope. This is mybuilding.” He paused in front of a long shelf. “Won two city’s best and one architectural design for it. And all those—” he said, pointing to pyramidal glass trophies, polished prisms gleaming in the light “—are humanitarian awards. For doing thingsright.”

Jo ignored this. “You said your name was Foley.”