Mercy

CHAPTER SIX

John's friends never saw it coming. Two weeks to the day after Catherine's funeral, Cameron happened to run into the grieving widower at Commander's Palace, a four-star restaurant located in the Garden District. Cameron was sitting in one of the dining rooms waiting for his attorney to join him to discuss the never-ending and thoroughly nauseating topic of his divorce settlement. His wife was determined to destroy him financially and to publicly humiliate him in the process, and from the way things were going, it looked as though she would succeed.

John was having dinner with a young woman in the next room. The blond looked vaguely familiar. Her head was bent down, and she was diligently writing in her Day-Timer.

Cameron couldn't remember where he'd seen the woman before, but he was pleased to see his friend out for the evening, even

if it was business. John's moods had been so volatile since his wife's death. One minute he was overjoyed, almost euphoric, and the next, he was wallowing in self-pity and depression.

The blond lifted her head, and Cameron got a good look at her face. She was quite pretty. He still couldn't place her. He decided to interrupt the couple to say hello. He ordered a double scotch neat as fortification to get through the ordeal ahead

of him with his attorney, then started winding his way through the tables into the next dining room.

Had he not dropped his pen, he never would have known the truth. He bent down to scoop it up, and that was when he saw John put his hand on the blond's thigh under the white linen tablecloth. Her legs spread, and she shifted ever so slightly until she was leaning into his hand, which was now moving upward under her dress.

Cameron was so shocked by the intimacy he almost lost his balance. He quickly caught himself and stood. Neither John nor the woman noticed him. She had turned her head and was staring off into space, her eyes half-dosed in obvious bliss.

Cameron couldn't believe what he was seeing, but that instant of disbelief swiftly turned into confusion.

He suddenly remembered who the blond was, though he couldn't recall her name. She was the insipid female who called herself an interior decorator. Cameron had met her in John's office. Oh, yes, it was all coming back to him now. She didn't have taste or talent. She had turned his friend's office into a bordello parlor by painting the beautiful walnut-paneled walls a deep, garish mustard yellow.

She obviously had talent in another area though. The way John was all but licking his lips as he greedily stared at her pouting mouth indicated she was real talented in the bedroom. Cameron continued to stand near the doorway, staring at his friend's back while the truth settled in his mind.

The son of a bitch had duped them all.

Incredulous, and at the same time overwhelmed with anger, Cameron turned and walked back to his table. He tried to convince himself that he was jumping to the wrong conclusions. He had known John for years and trusted him completely.

Until now. Damn it, what had John done to them? White-collar crime was one thing; murder was quite another. The club had never gone this far before, and what made it all the more chilling was that they had convinced themselves that they were actually doing a good deed. Tell that to a jury of their peers and watch them laugh.

Dear God, had Catherine really been terminal? Had she been dying a slow, agonizing death? Or had John simply been lying to them to get them to do his dirty work?

No, not possible. John wouldn't have lied about his wife. He'd loved her, damn it.

Cameron was sick to his stomach. He didn't know what to think, but he did know it would be wrong to condemn his friend without knowing all the facts. Then it occurred to him that the affair, if that was what this was, could have begun after Catherine's death. He latched onto the idea. Yes, of course. John had known the decorator before his wife's death. The blond had been hired by Catherine to redecorate her bedroom. But so what if he had known her? After his wife died, John was grieving and lonely, and the young woman was available. Hell, she probably pounced on his vulnerability right after the funeral.

A nagging doubt remained. If this was innocent, then why hadn't John told his friends about her? Why was he hiding it?

Maybe because his wife's ashes hadn't even had time to cool off yet. Yeah, that was it. John knew it wouldn't look good to get involved with another woman so soon after Catherine's death. People would certainly think it was odd and start talking and speculating, and the club sure as hell didn't want that to happen. John was smart enough to know he should keep a low profile.

Cameron had almost convinced himself that what he had seen was pretty harmless, but he still felt compelled to make certain.

He didn't let John see him. He paid his bar tab and slipped out of the restaurant. He had the valet bring around the used Ford sedan he was forced to drive these days-his soon-to-be ex-wife had already confiscated his cherished Jaguar, damn the slut.

He drove to the next block, ducked down in the seat, and turned to watch for the couple to come outside. While he waited, he called his attorney on his cell phone to cancel dinner.

The two of them came outside twenty minutes later. They stood at the curb, feeing each other about five feet apart, acting stiff and formal, as though they were little more than strangers, John with his hands stuffed in his pants pockets, the blond clutching

her purse and her Day-Timer. When her car arrived, she tucked her purse under her arm and shook John's hand. The valet held the door of her cherry red Honda open, and she got inside and drove away without a backward glance.

To the casual observer, the scene was very businesslike.

A minute later John's gray BMW convertible arrived. He took his time removing his suit jacket, folding it just so before carefully placing it on the passenger's seat. The well-fitted suit was Valentino, the only designer John ever wore. A wave of bitterness washed over Cameron. Six months ago he, too, had had a closet full of Joseph Abboud and Calvin Klein and Valentino suits, but then his wife, in a drunken rage, had grabbed a butcher knife and shredded the clothes into rags. That little tantrum had destroyed over fifty thousand dollars' worth of garments.

God, how he longed to get even. Some nights he lay in bed and fantasized about all sorts of ways to kill her. The most important element in the daydream was pain. He wanted the bitch to suffer as she was dying. His favorite scenario was smashing her face through a glass window and watching the whore slowly bleed to death. In his fantasy a shard of glass barely nicked her artery.

Oh, yes, he wanted her to suffer the way she was making him suffer, to get even with her for stealing his life from him. She'd frozen all of his assets until the divorce settlement was reached, but he already knew what the outcome would be. She was going to take it all.

She didn't know about the Sowing Club or the assets they had hidden. No one did. Her attorney wouldn't be able to find the money either, even if he had been looking. The millions of dollars were in an offshore account, and none of it could be traced back to him.

But for now, it didn't matter that he had money hidden. He couldn't touch any of it until he turned forty. That was the deal the four friends had made, and he knew the others wouldn't let him borrow from the fund. It was too risky, and so, for the next five years, he was going to have to bite the bullet and live like a pauper.

John was the lucky devil. Now that Catherine was dead, he had what was left of her trust fund, which he didn't have to share with anyone.

Cameron was filled with envy as he watched his friend put on his Saints' ball cap. He knew John only wore the thing to hide his bald spot. He was going to be completely bald by the time he was fifty, like all the men in his family, no matter what precautions he took.

But what did that matter? He'd still look real good to women. Women would put up with any flaw if there was money involved.

Cameron dismissed this latest bout of self-pity with a shake of his head. Feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to change anything. Besides, he could hold on for a few more years. Concentrate on the future, he told himself. Soon he would be able to retire as a multimillionaire and move to the south of France, and there wouldn't be a damned thing his ex could do about it.

John slid onto the soft leather seat. Then he loosened his tie, adjusted the rearview mirror, and drove away.

Should he follow him? Cameron threaded his fingers through his hair in frustration. He knew he wasn't being fair to John and that it was wrong for him to become so easily spooked by what was surely innocent. John had loved his wife, and if a cure had been possible, Cameron knew that his friend would have spent every dollar he had to save Catherine.

Yet, the nagging uncertainty wouldn't go away, and so he did follow him. He figured that if he could just sit down with him and talk, they would be able to dear up this… misunderstanding. John would tell him this suspicion was simply a reaction to the horrible guilt he was feeling over what they had done in the name of mercy.

Cameron thought about turning the car around and going home, but he didn't do it. He had to be sure. Had to know. He took a shortcut through the Garden District and arrived at John's house before he did. The beautiful Victorian home was on a coveted corner lot. There were two enormous, ancient oak trees and a magnolia casting black shadows on the front yard. Cameron pulled onto the side street adjacent to the electronically gated driveway. He turned the lights off, then the motor, and sat there, well concealed under a leafy branch that blocked out the streetlight. The house was dark. When John arrived, Cameron reached for the door handle, then froze.

"Shit," he whispered.

She was there, waiting. As the iron gate was opening, he spotted her standing on the sidewalk by the side of the house. The garage door lifted then, and Cameron saw her red Honda parked inside.

As soon as John parked his car and walked out of the garage, she ran to him, her large round breasts bouncing like silicone balls underneath the tight fabric of her dress. The bereaved widower couldn't wait to get her inside the house. They tore at each other like street dogs in heat. Her black dress was unzipped and down around her waist in a matter of seconds, and his hand was latched onto one of her breasts as they stumbled to the door. His grunts of pleasure blended with her shrill laughter.

"That son of a bitch," Cameron muttered. "That stupid son of a bitch."

He had seen enough. He drove home to his rented one-bedroom apartment in the untrendy section of the warehouse district and paced for hours, stewing and fuming and worrying. A bottle of scotch fueled his anger.

Around two in the morning, a couple of drunks got into a fistfight outside of his window. Cameron watched the spectacle with disgusted curiosity. One of them had a knife, and Cameron hoped he'd stab the other one just to shut him up. Someone must have called the police. They arrived, sirens blaring, minutes later.

There were two officers in the patrol car. They quickly disarmed the drunk with the knife and then slammed both men up against a stone wall. Blood, iridescent under the garish streetlight, poured from a gash in the side of one drunk's head as he crashed unconscious to the pavement.

The policeman who'd used the unnecessary force shouted a crude blasphemy as he rolled the unconscious man over onto his stomach and then knelt on his back and secured the handcuffs. Then he dragged him to the car. The other drunk meekly waited his turn, and within another minute or two, both were locked in the back of the car on their way to the city jail.

Cameron gulped a long swallow of scotch and wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. The scene under his window had freaked him, especially the handcuffs. He couldn't handle being cuffed. He couldn't go to prison, wouldn't. He'd kill himself first… if he had the courage. He had always been a little claustrophobic, but the condition had worsened over the years. He couldn't be inside a windowless room these days without feeling tightness in his chest. He'd stopped using elevators, preferring to walk up seven flights of stairs rather than spend thirty or forty seconds inside a metal elevator box, squeezed in like

a dead sardine with the other office dwellers.

Dear God, why hadn't he thought about his claustrophobia before he agreed to this lunacy?

He knew the answer and was drunk enough to admit it. Greed. Fucking greed. John was the motivator, the planner, the man with the vision… and the money connections. With the fervor of a southern evangelist, he'd promised he could make them all rich. Hell, he already had. But he had also played them for the greedy fools he knew they were. When he started talking about killing himself, he knew they'd all panic. They couldn't lose John, and they would do anything to keep him happy.

And that was exactly what the bastard had counted on.

Bleary-eyed from drink, Cameron finished the bottle of scotch and went to bed. The following morning, Sunday, he battled a hangover until noon. Then, when he was clearheaded, he came up with a plan. He needed absolute proof for Preston and Dallas to see, and once they realized how John had manipulated them, Cameron would demand that they split the profits in the Sowing Club now and go their separate ways. He wasn't about to wait five more years to collect his share. After what John had done,

all Cameron could think about was running away before they got caught.

Cameron had a few connections of his own, and there were a couple of calls he needed to make. He had five working days before the confrontation he planned on Friday. Five days to nail the son of a bitch.

He didn't tell anyone what he was doing. Friday rolled around, and he arrived at Dooley's late, around six-thirty in the evening.

He made his way to their table and took the seat across from John. The waiter had spotted him and brought him his usual drink before Cameron had taken off his suit jacket and loosened his tie.

"You look like hell," Preston said in his customary blunt way. Of the four, he was the health nut and made it dear at every opportunity that he didn't approve of Cameron's lifestyle. Built like an Olympic weightlifter, Preston was obsessive about working out five nights a week at a posh health club. In his opinion, any man who didn't have steely upper arms and a stomach you could bounce a quarter off of was a weakling, and men with beer guts were to be pitied.

"I've put in some long hours at work this week. I'm tired, that's all."

"You've got to start taking care of yourself before it's too late," Preston said. "Come with me to the club and start lifting weights and running the track. And lay off the booze, for Christ's sake. It's killing your liver."

"Since when did you become my mother?" Dallas, a die-hard peacemaker, couldn't stand discord, no matter how minor. "Preston's just concerned about you. We both know you've been under a lot of stress lately with the divorce and all. We just don't want you to get sick. Preston and I depend on you and John."

"Preston's right," John said. He swirled his swizzle stick in the amber liquid as he added, "You do look bad."

"I'm fine," he muttered. "Now enough about me."

"Yeah, sure," Preston said, offended by the censure in Cameron's voice.

Cameron gulped down his drink and then motioned for the waiter to bring him another. "Anything new happen this week?"

he asked.

"It's been dull for me." Preston shrugged. "But I guess in our business that's good. Right, Dallas?"

"Right. It's been pretty dull for me too."

"What about you, John? Anything new going on with you?" Cameron asked mildly.

John shrugged. "I'm hanging in there, taking it a day at a time."

He sounded pathetic. Cameron thought John's performance was a bit overdone, but Preston and Dallas bought it and were sympathetic.

"It will get easier," Preston promised. Since he had absolutely no experience with losing anyone he cared about, he couldn't possibly know if John's life would get easier or not, but he felt he should give his friend some sort of encouragement.

"With time," he added lamely.

"That's right. You just need some time," Dallas said.

"How long has it been since Catherine died?"

Cameron asked.

John raised an eyebrow. "You know how long it's been." He stood, removed his suit jacket and carefully folded it, then draped

it over the back of the chair. "I'm going to go get some Beer Nuts."

"Yeah, bring some pretzels too," Preston said. He waited until John had walked away before turning on Cameron.

"Did you have to bring Catherine's name up now?"

John told the waitress what he wanted and was walking back to the table when he heard Dallas say, "John was just starting

to relax. Give the guy a break."

"You don't need to coddle me," John said as he dragged his chair out and sat down. "I haven't kept count of the hours and

minutes my wife has been gone," he said. "Some nights it seems like only yesterday."

"It's been almost a month." Cameron studied his friend as he made the comment. He picked up his glass and saluted John.

"I think you ought to start dating. I really do."

"Are you crazy?" Dallas whispered. "It's way too soon."

Preston vehemently nodded. "People will talk if he starts dating this soon, and talk leads to speculation. We don't want that.

Don't you agree, Dallas?"

"Hell, yes, I agree. I can't believe you suggested it, Cam."

John leaned back in his chair. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly and his expression looked pained. "I couldn't do it, not yet anyway. Maybe never. I can't imagine being with another woman. I loved Catherine, and the thought of replacing her makes

me sick to my stomach. You know how I felt about my wife."

Cameron gripped his hands together in his lap to keep himself from reaching across the table and grabbing the lying bastard by

the throat.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I was being insensitive." He reached down into his open briefcase and pulled out a thick manila file folder. Pushing his drink aside, he carefully placed it in the center of the table.

"What's that?" Dallas wanted to know.

"Another investment opportunity?" Preston guessed.

Cameron stared at John as he dropped his bomb. "Lots of notes and figures," he said. "And…" "And what?" John asked. "Catherine's medical records." John was reaching for the folder. When Cameron announced what was inside, John reacted

as though a rattlesnake had just landed on his hand. He jerked back and then came up halfway out of his chair. The shock was quickly replaced by anger. "What the hell are you doing with my wife's medical records?" he demanded. John's face was so red he looked as if he was about to have a stroke. Cameron began to hope that he would and that it would be massive and debilitating. The prick should suffer as much and as long as possible.

"You son of a bitch," Cameron hissed. "I saw you Saturday night with the blond. I couldn't figure out why you hadn't told us about her, and so I decided to do a little investigative work on my own."

"You didn't trust me?" John was genuinely outraged.

"No, I didn't."

Turning to Preston and Dallas, Cameron said, "Guess what? Good old Catherine wasn't dying. John just wanted to get rid of her. Isn't that right, John? You played us for fools, and, damn, we were that. We believed every word you told us. You knew Monk wouldn't kill her unless we all agreed. That was the deal when we hired him. He works for the club, and you didn't have the guts to kill her yourself. You wanted to involve us, didn't you?"

Dallas whispered, "I don't believe it."

Preston was too stunned to speak. He stared at the file folder as he asked, "Is Cameron right or wrong? Catherine was terminal, wasn't she? You told us it was her heart, a congenital defect…" He stopped and turned helplessly to Cameron. Then he whispered, "My God."

John's lips were pinched together. His eyes blazed with fury, his gaze fully directed on Cameron. "What gave you the right to spy on me?"

Cameron laughed harshly. "You arrogant ass. You've got the balls to be outraged that I spied on you and your little Barbie doll?" Glancing at Dallas, whose complexion was rapidly turning green, he asked, "Want to hear something else really funny? You'll get

a kick out of this news. I know I did."

Dallas picked up the folder and asked, "What?" John lunged to grab the file, but Dallas was quicker.

"Catherine introduced this woman, Iindsey, to John. She hired the bitch to redecorate her bedroom. Isn't that right, John? The affair started almost immediately after you met her, didn't it? But you had already decided to kill your wife."

"I don't think it's a good idea to talk about this here," Preston said with a worried glance around the bar to see if anyone was watching them.

"Of course we should talk about this here," Cameron said. "This is, after all, where we planned the mercy killing."

"Cam, you've got it all wrong," John said. He looked earnest now, sincere. "I've only had one date with Iindsey, and it wasn't really even a date. It was a business meeting."

Eager to believe John was telling the truth, Preston vigorously nodded. "If he says it was business, then that's what it was."

"Bullshit. He's lying. I followed him home. I saw Iindsey's car parked in his garage, and she was there waiting for him. They were all over each other. She's living with you now, isn't she, John? And you're hiding it from everyone, especially the three of us." Cameron began to rub his temples. He'd had a pounding, relentless headache off and on for the past week, ever since he discovered John's nasty little secret. "Don't bother to answer. I've got all the facts right here," he said, pointing to the folder

Dallas had just opened. "Did you know Lindsey thinks you're going to marry her? I got that bit of information from her mother. She's already planning the wedding."

"You talked to Lindsey's mother? All that alcohol has gotten to you, Cameron. It's made you delusional… paranoid."

"You pompous ass," he scoffed.

"Lower your voice," Preston pleaded. His brow was covered with perspiration, and he wiped it away with the bar napkin. Fear made his throat dry.

"Shall we discuss Catherine's little trust fund that John was so worried would run out?"

"What about it?" Preston asked. "Was there any left?"

"Oh, yes," Cameron drawled. "About four million dollars."

"Three million, nine hundred seventy-eight thousand to be exact," Dallas read from die folder.

"Dear God… this can't be happening," Preston said. "He told us… He told us he took her to Mayo, and they couldn't do

anything for her. Remember, Cameron? He told us…"

"He lied. He lied about everything, and we were so damned trusting we believed him. Think about it, Preston. When was the last time any of us saw her? A couple of years ago? It was right before she went to Mayo, wasn't it? We all saw how bad she looked. Then when she got back, John said she didn't want to see anyone. And so we respected her wishes. For two years, it was John who told us how her condition was deteriorating and how much she was suffering. All that time, he was lying."

They all stared at John, waiting for him to explain.

John lifted his hands, palms up in mock surrender, and smiled. "I guess the game's over," he said.

Stunned silence followed the announcement.

"You admit it?" Preston asked.

"Yeah, I guess I do," he said. "It's kind of a relief, really, not to have to sneak around you guys any longer. Cameron's right. I've been planning this for a long time. Over four years," he boasted. "Did I ever love Catherine? Maybe, in the beginning, before she turned into an obsessive, demanding pig. It's funny how love can turn into hate so quickly. Then again, I might not have loved her at all. It could have been her trust fund. I did love the money."

Dallas dropped a glass. It landed with a thud on the carpet. "What have you done to us?" The question came out in a choked whisper.

"I did what I had to do," John defended. "And I don't have any regrets. Well, no, that isn't exactly true. I regret inviting Lindsey

to move in. I mean, I've loved every minute I've had her. She'll do anything in bed, anything at all that I ask, and she so wants to please me. She's getting clingy, though, and I'm sure as hell not going to get tied down again."

"You son of a bitch," Cameron snarled.

"Yes, I am that," John agreed smoothly. "Want to know the best part, besides the pig's trust fund? It was so damned easy."

"You murdered her." Dallas closed the folder.

John shifted in his chair. "No, that's not exacdy true, I didn't murder her. We did."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Dallas stammered, and then bolted for the bathroom.

John seemed amused by the reaction. He motioned to the waiter to bring another round of drinks.

They sat stiffly together, like strangers now, each lost in his own thoughts. After the waiter had placed fresh drinks on the table and left, John said, "I bet you'd like to kill me with your bare hands, wouldn't you, Cameron?"

"I'd sure as hell like to," Preston said.

John shook his head. "You're a hothead, Preston. Always have been. And with your muscle-building regime, you could break every bone in my body. But," he added, "if it weren't for me, you'd already be in prison. You don't think things through. You don't have what it takes. I guess you just don't have a calculating mind. We've had to push you into every financial decision. And we had to pressure you into agreeing with us to pay Monk to kill Catherine.'' He paused. "Cameron, on the other hand, does have what it takes."

Cameron inwardly cringed. "I knew you didn't have much of a conscience, but I never figured you'd screw us. We're all you've got, John. Without us, you're… nothing."

"We were friends and I trusted you," Preston said.

"We're still friends," John argued. "Nothing's changed."

"The hell it hasn't," Cameron shot back.

John was completely unruffled. "You'll get past it," he promised. "Especially when you remember how much money I've made

for you."

Cameron propped his elbows on the table and stared into John's eyes. "I want my cut now."

"It's out of the question."

"I say we dissolve the club. We each take our share and go our separate ways."

"Absolutely not," John said. "You know the rules. None of us touches a dime for five more years."

Dallas came back to the table and sat down. "What did I miss?"

Preston, who now looked as though he was going to be sick, answered, "Cameron wants to dissolve the club and split the assets now."

"No way," Dallas said, appalled. "You make a withdrawal, and it can be traced by the IRS. It's out of the question."

"He can't touch the money unless we all go with him to the bank, remember? We all have to sign before we're given access. That's how we set it up," John reminded them.

"You're a real bastard, John."

"Yeah, so you said. Face it, Cameron. You aren't angry because I lied to you. You're pissed off because your life's miserable

right now. I know you better than you know yourself. I know what you're thinking."

"Yeah? Enlighten me."

"You think I didn't have it all that bad. Right?"

"Yes," Cameron admitted. "That's exactly what I'm thinking."

John's voice was calm as he said, "But you didn't have the courage to do more than whine. I did. It's as simple as that."

He turned to Dallas. "You know, you'd never have asked Monk to kill Catherine if I hadn't lied."

"But, John, if you wanted out, why didn't you just divorce her?" Dallas asked.

"The money," he answered. "I wanted every dollar she had. By God, I deserved it for putting up with her. She was a controlling bitch," he added, and for the first time there was bitterness and hatred in his voice. "Unlike Cameron, I didn't mask my misery

with booze. I planned. You have no idea how sickening she was. Her weight had gotten out of hand. She was a hypochondriac. All she thought about and talked about was her health. She did have a heart murmur, but it was no big deal. She was thrilled

when she found that out. It gave her a reason to become even more slovenly. She took to her bed and stayed there, being waited on hand and foot by her maids and by me. I kept hoping her heart would blow up, and, honest to God, I tried to kill her with the

ton of chocolates I brought home every night, but it was taking too long. Granted, I could have screwed around on her every

night and she wouldn't have known. In fact, I did screw around and she didn't find out. Like I said, the woman was too lazy to

get out of bed, much less leave her bedroom. I couldn't stand coming home to her. Looking at her made me want to puke."

"Are we supposed to feel sorry for you now?" Cameron asked.

"No," he answered. "But as for crossing the line, we did that a long time ago."

"We never murdered anyone."

"So what? We'd still get twenty, maybe thirty years for all the crimes we have committed."

"But they were white-collar crimes," Preston stammered.

"Is that going to be your defense against the IRS?" John asked. "Think they'll just slap your hands?"

"We never killed."

"Well, now we have," John snapped, irritated with Preston's whiny attitude. Focusing on Cameron now, he said, "I'll tell you this.

It was easy… easy enough to do again. You know what I'm saying? We could wait a little while, maybe six months or so, and then talk to Monk again about your situation."

Dallas's mouth dropped open. "Are you out of your mind?"

Cameron cocked his head. He was already thinking about it. "I'd love for Monk to pay a visit to my wife. It would be worth

every penny I had."

"It's possible," John said smoothly.

"If you don't stop talking like that, I'm out," Preston threatened.

"It's too late for you to get out," John countered. "There's no such thing as a perfect murder," Dallas said.

"Catherine's was pretty damned perfect," John said. "I can tell you're thinking about it, aren't you, Cam?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "I am."

Preston suddenly wanted to wipe the smug look off of John's face. "You've become a monster," he said. "If anyone finds out about Catherine…"

"Relax," John said. "We're in the clear. Now stop worrying. No one's ever going to find out."