Truth or Die by James Patterson, Howard Roughan Page B

it?”
    “Of course.”
    “Why can’t you share it me while you’re alive?”
    “Good question,” I said. “But that’s a flash drive for another day.”
    I watched as Sebastian looked at the envelope again, staring at it now. He knew exactly what was in his hands. A major story. Front page, far right column, above the fold.
    “Why would you trust me?” he asked.
    “Because you were the one who taught Claire,” I said. “ ‘Never burn a source.’ ”
    In that moment, the way Sebastian nodded while choking back a tear, it was as if Claire were suddenly in the room. Although for the very first time, she was no longer standing between us.
    “You’re an idiot,” he said. “You realize that, don’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “She loved you.”
    “I know,” I said.
    “I mean, she really loved you.”
    “I know.”
    The rest didn’t need to be said. I had loved Claire just as much as she had loved me—that wasn’t why I was an idiot.
    I was an idiot because I hadn’t done anything about it.
    Standing, I thanked Sebastian for his time and, yes, his trust. “Keep it in a safe place,” I half joked, referring to the envelope. He smiled, although I could tell there was something else on his mind.
    He hesitated, falling silent. “Trevor, maybe you should sit down again,” he said.
    Slowly, I did. “What is it?” I asked.
    “I wasn’t going to tell you,” he began to explain, almost as if he were disappointed in himself. “Now I realize that would be wrong.”

CHAPTER 38
    THERE WASN’T a cloud in the sky when I walked out of the Times building, but I was in a complete fog. Dense. Thick. Furious.
    All I could see was the next step in front of me, nothing more. I knew where I was ultimately heading, except I couldn’t remember making the decision to go there. Or, for that matter, either of the two stops beforehand. It was a bit like sleepwalking.
In the middle of my worst possible nightmare.
    “Can I help you find something?” asked the sales clerk at the Innovation Luggage store at the intersection of Sixth Avenue and Fifty-Seventh Street. He was a blur standing right in front of me. His voice sounded like a distant radio station.
    “I need a small duffel bag that comes with a lock,” I said.
    “A lock, huh?” he repeated, tapping his chin in thought. “Combination or key?”
    “It doesn’t matter.”
    “Will you be flying with it? The TSA folks can—”
    “Really,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter.”
    He led me over to a wall display of cubbyholes that looked like a tic-tac-toe board. Before he could even make a suggestion, I saw what I needed.
    “The one in the middle,” I said.
    He took down the bag and I gave it a quick once-over. It was black, medium-sized, with a small padlock—the key for it, along with a spare, hanging from a zip tie around one of the handles.
    “Yeah, I’ll take it,” I said.
    “Do you want it in its box or would you like this one?” the clerk asked. By this point, it was abundantly clear that what I really wanted was to get the hell out of there.
    “This one’s fine,” I said, already reaching for my wallet.
    He spun the price tag around. “You’re in luck. It’s on sale.”
    “Good,” I grunted, or something to that effect, as I pulled out my Amex.
    I didn’t care about the price. I also didn’t care about using a credit card. The charge—and my location—could be traced in an instant. Even quicker than an instant. It would be like drawing a straight line to me, then lighting it like a fuse.
    So be it.
    Trevor, maybe you should sit down again. There’s something you need to know …
    “Are you all right?” asked the clerk. He certainly didn’t think so. It was bad enough that I had all the charm and charisma of a cinder block. Now I was standing there frozen like one.
    “Sorry,” I said, handing over my credit card. He ran it and I signed. As he handed me back the receipt, I nodded at the zip tie holding the keys. “Do you have any