“It’s a recent development,” Neal admitted. “But I’ve been thinking about retiring.”

He’d been thinking about it real hard since the moment he squeezed the trigger and dropped a man dead in the snow. Then he disappeared into Karen Hawley’s bedroom and didn’t come out for weeks, hiding from the Feds, the Highway Patrol, and the local cops.

Then the funniest thing happened: nothing.

When he finally poked his head out-long hair, beard, and all-nobody cared. No cops came; no questions were asked; nobody in the little town of Austin, Nevada, said anything.

And Neal got a life.

“You’re what, twenty-eight?” Graham asked.

“Working for Friends counts like dog years,” Neal answered, “so I’m really one hundred and ninety-six.”

Friends was shorthand for Friends of the Family, banker Ethan Kitteredge’s private organization that helped his wealthier clients out of jams, which usually meant putting Neal and Graham smack in the middle of one. Neal had just gotten out of the last jam, and wasn’t eager to get into another.

Besides, I’m happy, Graham, Neal thought. I get up in the morning, fix Karen her lunch, then go to my desk and work on my Smollett thesis until about noon. Then I either make lunch or walk down to Brogan’s for a sandwich and a beer, then back to work until late afternoon, when I whip up dinner. Then Karen comes home and we eat, after which she usually grades homework. Then we might watch a little television before we go to bed. I like my life.

“I’m thinking about transferring my credits from Columbia,” Neal said, “and finishing my degree at Nevada.”

Finishing my degree: It had an unreal sound to it. He’d been trying to finish his master’s degree for about six years, but work for Friends had taken him on some major detours from his goal of one day teaching English at a little college somewhere.

“Have you been getting the checks?” Graham asked.