Page 99 of The Midnight Knock

“Stanley, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

The voice came from over his shoulder: a man’s voice, vaguely familiar, whispering in Stanley’s ear. The voice brought with it another itch on the back of his neck, that cold creeping of insect feet, long nails, sharp fingers. Stanley shuddered against the ropes that held him—why had Ryan Fucking Phan justlefthim like this?—and he turned his head, following the voice.

There was no one back there.

“Don’t waste time, Stanley,” the voice whispered in his other ear now, and Stanley realized where he’d heard it before.

A moment ago, Stanley had thought the supply room was cold. He thought he’d known what cold was. He thought he’d known fear.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Earlier tonight, Fernanda had come barging through the door of Stanley’s room with a gun and a pissy attitude and awoken Stanley from a deep slumber. She’d laid out in very clear terms that she was running away from Frank, she was getting her revenge on Frank, and by God if Stanley wanted to keep clear of trouble, then he wouldn’t try to stop her.

I have photographs that implicate you in many crimes, Fernanda had said.If you want those photos to disappear, then you will stay out of my way.

Stanley had been too tired after his trip to Mexico City to give much of a shit. He’d nodded along to Fernanda’s terms, hardly bothering to listen. Frank was due to arrive at some point this evening. Sarah Powers had already made sure of that. Sarah had called both Frank and Stanley this morning and said simply,It’s time.

Fernanda could have all the pictures she’d like; it wasn’t as if Frank wouldn’t get them right back the minute he arrived.

But when all this was over, Stanley and his old buddy Frank would need to have a nice hard talk about the way Frank had sampled the wares. Stan had warned Frank, time and time again, that the man was a fool to keep Fernanda at his house like some goddamn princess under ransom. Fernanda was smart—dangerous smart—with a retard brother in Mexico she thought Stanley and Frank didn’t know about. Women like Fernanda lose their heads over brothers like that. She was bound to try a stunt like this.

All Stanley had said to Fernanda tonight, however, was, “You didn’t kill Frank on your way out of Stockton, did you?”

“No. We killed Lance.”

That had made Stanley arch an eyebrow. “Lance got in your way? Kyla Hewitt’s boyfriend? I thought y’all were going to the cartel.”

Fernanda had hesitated. “We are.”

“And Lance tried to stop you? I was starting to think he was working forthemmore than he was working for—”

Fernanda’s face had gone dark. Was it fear there, or anger, or shame?

The result was the same. She’d hit him—hit him—with the buttof her fucking gun. Busted Stanley’s lip wide open. She’d stood over him, panting, as Stanley dabbed blood from his chin.

He’d looked up. He’d seen tears in her eyes.

“He was trying to help you, wasn’t he?” Stanley said. “Lance was trying to help and you made a bad, bad call.”

Stanley had thought Fernanda would hit him again. She turned on her heel and left without a word.

He hadn’t given this much thought. It wouldn’t matter, would it, when Frank came? Stanley hadn’t realized until that moment that Penelope wasn’t there, in the room’s other bed, and he told himself he should be more worried about this. Even after all he’d done to get Penelope back from that reprobate Ryan Fucking Phan, in all honesty Stanley couldn’t actually stand being around his granddaughter.

Even if the girl didn’t have the attitude of a colt (and the same tendency to bolt), the guilt Stanley felt every time he saw the scar on her forehead would have defeated ten better men than him.

But then, back in his room earlier this evening, as he rubbed his busted lip and glanced over his shoulder at Penelope’s empty bed, his eye had settled on the mirror inside his wardrobe’s open door. His heart had plummeted into his stomach. His mind had briefly shut down.

In the reflection of the glass, Stanley had seen a man—imaginedhe’d seen a man—standing behind him at the side of the bed. A man in a gray gabardine suit.

“Stanley.”

That voice—that man—was whispering in his ear. Here in the supply room. Here in the cold. “I just want to give you a warning.”

“You’re not real,” Stanley’s anxious voice echoed off the concrete floor, the concrete cladding of his mind.

“I don’t reallyneedto warn you, of course, but it seemed like the polite thing to do.”

“You’re not real! I imagined you! She’d hit me in the head!”