Frank finished the Gianni Schicchi aria and switched to “Nessun dorma.” Ran the blade down one bar, then the other. One bar, then the other. He tested the blade again, nodded his satisfaction, and carefully stored the bars back in their case. He got up from his stool, laid the blade against the skin on Henkel’s chest, and said, “Harold, you have a decision to make—prison for life, maybe a lethal injection, or I skin you.” Henkel moaned. “I’m going to ask you once,” Frank said. “Harold, where’s the girl?” Henkel gave it up.
