Michael's bare feet hit the marble floor. Cold shot through his toes. He shuffled toward the kitchen, scratching his belly through his undershirt.
Amanda's voice drifted from the pool deck. "—and remember, inner thighs engaged throughout the entire sequence—"
Yoga class. Tuesday morning ritual. Her students parked their Audis and BMWs in his driveway like they owned the place.
The espresso machine gurgled. Michael rubbed his eyes and checked his phone. Three missed calls from his therapist's office. Dr. Friedlander probably wanted to reschedule again. Third time this month.
"Dad!" Jimmy's voice echoed down the hallway. "The Wi-Fi's fucked again!"
"Language!" Amanda called back.
Michael poured his coffee and opened the front door to grab the newspaper. The ceramic mug slipped. Hot liquid splashed his bare shins.
An envelope sat on the welcome mat. No postmark. No return address. Just his name written in block letters across cream-colored paper.
He glanced toward the pool. Amanda's students held warrior poses, backs turned to the house. He picked up the envelope and shut the door.
His fingers fumbled with the seal. Three photographs spilled onto the kitchen counter.
His blood turned to ice.
The first photo showed him crouched behind a concrete barrier, assault rifle in his hands. The Union Depository job. Six months ago. The second caught Franklin sprinting toward their getaway car, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The third showed Trevor at the helicopter, wild hair whipping in the rotor wash.
Someone had been there. Someone with a telephoto lens and perfect positioning.
Michael's hands shook. He flipped the photos over. Coordinates were written on the back of each one in the same block letters. Below the numbers, a single line:
One job. Clean slate. Refuse and the photos go public.
"Shit." The word came out as a whisper.
"Michael?" Amanda's voice, closer now. "Everything okay?"
He shoved the photos into the envelope and stuffed it under the newspaper. "Yeah, just—coffee everywhere."
She appeared in the doorway, yoga mat tucked under her arm. Her students filed past behind her, chattering about chakras and detoxification.
"You look pale." She studied his face. "Did you sleep last night?"
"Slept fine."
"You were tossing around until three AM."
Michael grabbed paper towels and crouched to clean the spilled coffee. The envelope crinkled under the newspaper. "Just work stuff on my mind."
"What work? You're retired."
He kept scrubbing the floor. "Investment portfolio. Market volatility."
Amanda's bare feet appeared in his peripheral vision. Her toenails were painted coral pink. "Since when do you know anything about investments?"
"Since I started caring about our future."
"Our future." She repeated the words like they tasted wrong. "Right."
The front door opened and closed as her students left. Car engines started in the driveway. Michael stayed crouched, pretending the coffee stain needed more attention.
"I'm going to shower." Amanda's feet disappeared. "Don't forget Tracey's recital tonight."
"Wouldn't miss it."
Michael waited until he heard the bathroom door close. Then he pulled out his phone and scrolled to Franklin's number. His thumb hovered over the call button.
Six months of normal life. Six months of family dinners and therapy sessions and pretending he gave a damn about Tracey's community college theater productions. Six months of telling himself the Union Depository job was behind them.
He dialed Franklin's number.
"Premium Deluxe Motorsports, Franklin speaking."
"It's me."
A pause. "Michael? What's—"
"We need to meet. All three of us."
"I'm in the middle of a—"
"Someone knows about the job."
Another pause, longer this time. Background noise faded as Franklin moved somewhere private.
"What are you talking about?"
Michael pulled the photos from the envelope and spread them on the counter. His face stared back at him from the glossy paper. Younger-looking somehow. More alive.
"Photos. From the depository. Professional quality."
"How is that possible?"
"I don't know. But whoever took them wants something."
Franklin's breathing changed. "What kind of something?"
"Another job. Coordinates included."
"Fuck."
"Meet me at the cemetery. Pacific Bluffs. One hour."
"What about Trevor?"
Michael looked at the third photo. Trevor's face caught mid-yell, mouth open, eyes wild with adrenaline. "I'll call him."
He ended the call and scrolled to Trevor's number. The phone rang six times before Trevor picked up.
"Michael fucking De Santa. To what do I owe the—"
"Someone photographed us during the Union Depository heist."
Silence. Michael could hear wind blowing across the desert. A truck engine running in the background.
"That's impossible," Trevor said finally.
"Three photos. High resolution. Professional equipment."
"Who?"
"Unknown. They want to meet."
Trevor laughed, but it sounded forced. "Let them want."
"They're threatening to go public if we don't comply."
The laughing stopped. "Go public where?"
"Doesn't matter. Police, FBI, news outlets. Take your pick."
More silence. The truck engine shut off.
"Where?" Trevor asked.
"Pacific Bluffs Cemetery. One hour."
"I'll be there."
Michael hung up and stared at the photos. The camera had caught details he'd forgotten. Sweat stains on Franklin's shirt. Scratches on Trevor's face from the helicopter landing. His own tactical vest, borrowed from a dead security guard.
Details that would convict them all.
He gathered the photos and shoved them back in the envelope. Upstairs, the shower was still running. Amanda singing off-key to some pop song he didn't recognize.
Normal life. His wife humming in the shower, his son bitching about internet speeds, his daughter rehearsing lines for a play nobody would remember. Everything he'd supposedly wanted when he entered witness protection.
Everything he was about to lose.
Michael grabbed his keys and wallet. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, listening to Amanda's voice echo off the bathroom tiles. She sounded happy. Content.
He walked to his car without saying goodbye.