Ricky helped me pack up the get-well cards and gifts—mostly sports gear and gift cards—in my hospital room as the nurse helped me sign my discharge papers. I didn’t know how I was going to pay the hospital bill for this twenty-day stay. I didn’t know if Sabrina had taken the time to officially fire me and cancel my health benefits. I supposed I would find out soon enough. In the meantime, I tried not to worry about it, or the fact that I might never regain full use of my left shoulder.

I had to focus on the positive things in my life. Like the fact that Ricky’s boss, when he found out I’d been fired and nearly killed by the same person in a span of two weeks, gave Ricky the promotion and raise he’d been pining after for almost a year. Or the fact that seeing me in the hospital, and hearing the story of how Kristin had to quit college to take care of her mom, made Geneva and Alisha swear to me that nothing would stop them from going to college and getting a degree.

Of course, the most amazingly positive thing in my life was still Kristin.

I knew she was strong when I found out she was taking care of her mother on her own. But I could not have foreseen how gracefully she would handle this whole experience—the deceit from me and her mother, the reconciliation with her best friend, the death of her absent father, and her new position as de facto CEO of Becker Holdings, as specified in her father’s will. I had no doubt she would answer the call of duty for Michael’s empire the way she had when her mother needed her.

The nurse gave me the copies of the signed discharge papers and disappeared into the corridor. I sank into the visitor’s chair as Ricky finished collecting more cards and gifts from the small closet in the corner of the room. I closed my eyes and tried to think of people I could contact for leads on a job. Manhattan was chock-full of rich people. There had to be a rich woman out there looking for a devastatingly handsome crippled bodyguard.

“Yo, Danny. You got a visitor,” Ricky said.

I opened my eyes and the hairs on my neck prickled. Detective Jones stood in the doorway wearing a look so deadly serious, I was certain he was going to deliver some very bad news.

Bracing myself for whatever it was, I stood gingerly and walked over to him, holding out my good hand to shake. “Detective.”

He shook my hand and broke into a toothy grin as he eyed my left arm in its sling. “Looks like you could use some good news.”

I turned to Ricky and nodded toward the corridor. He easily took the hint to leave us alone. Once Ricky was gone, I motioned for Jones to have a seat in one of the two visitors’ chairs. I grabbed the other one and pulled it a little farther away before I took a seat.

“Shoot.”

Jones laughed. “Interesting choice of words,” he said, glancing at my shoulder. “Well, I won’t beat around the bush. I’m here to tell you that, based on the department investigation and the coroner’s findings, Michael Becker’s death has officially been ruled an accident. The investigation into his death is now closed.”

I let out a huge sigh of relief. “Thank God. And thank you for coming to tell me personally,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s a huge weight off my shoulders.”

He glanced at my injured arm again. “Doesn’t look like you’ll be doing much heavy lifting with that shoulder anytime soon,” he said, with a grin that told me he was enjoying my injury a little too much.

“Ah, this is nothing,” I said, pretending to brush some dirt off my shoulder. “It’s just what happens when you’re out there putting your life on the line every day.”

He laughed. “Really,” he said, nodding his head. “So how does that work? Does getting shot make you a good bodyguard or a bad bodyguard?”

I laughed as I shook my head. “Probably a stupid bodyguard.”

We both stood up at the same time, but he spoke first. “You’re a good guy, Meyers. Keep up that bravery and you might become a great one someday.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “So…before you leave, you mind updating me on Sabrina Sokolov? Should I be looking over my shoulder as soon as I walk out that door?”

This new line of questioning tempered his smile a bit. “They’re working on gathering evidence for the indictment right now. The photos and voice recordings you provided will help with that…. Hearing is in two days. But, from what I hear, they left a paper trail a mile long. So my advice to you is… Get a lawyer, because when the shit hits the fan, they’re gonna start pointing fingers at the first mention of a plea deal.” He nodded once before he headed for the door. “But you didn’t hear that from me. Take care, Meyers.”

I smiled as he stepped into the corridor and the sound of his footsteps faded away. “Take care, chief.”

* * *

Ricky backed his pickup truck into a parking space a couple blocks from our building. “Oh, shit! I almost forgot!” he said, reaching into the backseat and coming up with a large sealed manila envelope. “A messenger dropped this off for you this morning. I haven’t opened it.”

I took the envelope and turned it over in my lap a couple of times, looking at both sides. There was no return address, and only my first name was written on the outside in nondescript black marker.

“Did the messenger say who it’s from?” I asked, hesitant to open it.

Ricky shrugged. “He didn’t say shit. But he also left a big-ass package at the apartment.”

I looked at Ricky to see if maybe he was trying to trick me. “Am I gonna open this up and find pics of myself high on morphine getting my bedpan changed or something?”

He laughed. “How the fuck do I know? I swear, I had nothing to do with that. For all I know, that envelope contains anthrax.”

I glared at him. “Thanks for easing my mind,” I said, shaking my head as I broke the seal on the envelope and reached inside.

I pulled out a packet of what looked like a dozen or so pages stapled together, with a check paper-clipped to the front of the packet. The top of the check indicated it was a severance check. The bottom portion of the check was made out to me from Becker Holdings in the amount of $1.00. It had to be a bad joke orchestrated by Sabrina to rub my nose in my unemployment.

I ripped the check out of the paper clip and began to crumple it up when I noticed the packet of paper behind the check. It looked like some type of letter. Then, I read the name typed beneath the signature at the bottom of the page: Kristin Owens, CEO.

My eyes scanned the letter, and I nearly vomited with relief when I realized it was an offer of employment. Attached to the back of the letter was a nondisclosure agreement and an employment agreement to work as Kristin’s bodyguard earning double what Michael had paid me.

“Fucking hell,” I said, shaking my head. “I thought this was going to be from Sabrina and we were going to have to evacuate the whole fucking building.”

“So…is this a good thing?” Ricky asked, looking confused.

I nodded as I reached for the door handle. “It’s a very fucking good thing, bro. Now, come show me this package.”

Ricky helped open the wooden box that looked like it contained a flat-screen TV. But I highly doubted Kristin would send me a television. If she did, I would question her judgment. I didn’t need to be wasting away on the couch. I had to get back into the gym as soon as possible so I could be in top shape to protect her.

Inside the wooden box was a cardboard box. Inside the cardboard box were Styrofoam corners, encasing something that was wrapped in thick white canvas fabric. On every container, the words DO NOT USE SHARP INSTRUMENTS TO OPEN were printed very large and clear. I helped Ricky remove the foam corners and unwrap the fabric to reveal something completely unexpected and totally outrageous.

It was the Picasso that had hung in the upstairs corridor of Michael’s beach house.

“Is this…” Ricky said, tilting his head. “Is this a fucking Picasso?”

I shook my head in utter disbelief. “If it is, we have to keep our voices down,” I said, suddenly feeling as if the walls separating our apartment from the one next door were way too thin.

Ricky tilted his head some more to get a better look at the back side of the painting. “There’s something on the back.”

I walked carefully around to the other side and found a Post-it note affixed to the back of the canvas, which I took as proof that this was a real fucking Picasso. In black marker, written in neat cursive, were the words: Because you’re priceless.