“Because by the time he died, he no longer trusted me.”

Silence.

There.

Claire’s hand tightened around edge of table.

“Why?”

Dominic’s answer came quietly.

“Because I accused him of stealing from me.”

Sophie hummed to rabbit.

Claire stared.

“How much?”

“Two point four million dollars.”

“Did he?”

“I thought he did.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“No.”

Dominic looked directly at her.

“I no longer believe he did.”

Claire’s body went cold.

“What happened after you accused him?”

Dominic’s jaw shifted.

“I ordered him brought to me.”

“Brought how?”

“By my men.”

Her stomach turned.

“Did they hurt him?”

“They never reached him.”

“How do you know?”

“He died before they did.”

Car accident.

January ninth.

Claire heard rain against estate windows even though it was barely raining outside.

Maybe memory invented sound.

“Where?”

“Lower Wacker.”

“Yes.”

“I know.”

“Who was coming for him?”

Dominic hesitated.

Claire leaned forward.

“Who?”

“Renato Corsi.”

The name meant nothing to her.

It meant something to Dominic.

His eyes said so.

“My underboss then.”

“Then?”

“He still works with parts of my organization.”

Claire stared.

“You think he killed Ethan.”

Dominic held her gaze.

“I think I should have asked that question four years ago.”

There.

Not accusation.

Guilt.

Claire stood again.

This time she lifted Sophie.

“We’re leaving.”

Dominic stood too.

He did not block.

“Your shift—”

“I don’t care.”

“You’ll be paid.”

She glared.

“I don’t want your money.”

“It’s wages.”

That stopped her.

Six hours worked.

Earned.

Good.

“Fine.”

She moved toward door.

Dominic said:

“Claire.”

She turned.

“I have something of Ethan’s.”

Her heart stopped.

“What?”

“A photograph.”

“Of what?”

“He gave it to me the night before he died.”

Dominic opened the inside pocket of his jacket.

Claire flinched.

He stopped.

Slowly removed a folded leather card sleeve.

Not gun.

He placed it on table.

Did not approach.

Claire stared.

Inside:

a photograph of her.

Six months pregnant.

Standing in their tiny old kitchen.

Holding Mr. Buttons by one ear.

Ethan had taken it.

On the back, his handwriting:

IF I’M WRONG ABOUT DOMINIC, BURN THIS.

IF I’M RIGHT, HE’LL KNOW WHO TO PROTECT.

Claire’s knees weakened.

She sat.

Dominic remained across the room.

Good.

Claire read again.

“If I’m right about what?”

“I don’t know.”

“You kept this for four years.”

“Yes.”

“Did you protect us?”

Dominic’s face changed.

“No.”

Claire looked up.

“No?”

“I stayed away.”

“That is not protection.”

“I know.”

“Did you ever check if we were alive?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes hardened.

“How?”

“One report after Sophie was born. Then I stopped.”

“Why?”

“Ethan told me not to come near you unless I knew he was right.”

“But you didn’t know.”

“No.”

“And now?”

Dominic looked at Sophie.

Then Mr. Buttons.

Then Claire.

“Now my old underboss’s name appeared last month in an audit involving the same kind of missing money Ethan was blamed for.”

Claire stopped.

“Renato.”

“Yes.”

“How much missing now?”

“Two point three million.”

Almost same.

Not accident.

Pattern.

Dominic continued.

“And the accountant who found it disappeared on Monday.”

Claire went still.

Not dead.

Missing.

“And you think Ethan found the same thing.”

“Yes.”

“Why tell me?”

“Because you brought his daughter into my house carrying the rabbit he bought before he died.”

He swallowed.

“And because I have spent four years treating his last message like a reason to stay away when it may have been a reason to look harder.”

Claire looked at photograph.

Then Sophie.

Then Dominic.

“You don’t get to make her the reason you fix your mistake.”

His face changed.

Good.

“No.”

“She is three.”

“Yes.”

“She asked you for a hug, not an investigation.”

“Yes.”

“She does not become evidence.”

“No.”

Claire nodded.

Then took photograph.

“Mine.”

Dominic almost smiled sadly.

“Yes.”

She put it in bag.

Then:

“I’m still leaving.”

“I know.”

At door, Sophie twisted in Claire’s arms.

“Mr. Dominic.”

He looked.

“My five minutes tomorrow?”

Claire closed eyes.

Dominic did not answer child.

He looked at Claire.

Good.

Claire thought.

Then:

“Not tomorrow.”

Sophie frowned.

“Why?”

“Because Mommy needs time.”

Dominic nodded.

Sophie considered.

Then waved.

“Okay.”

They left.

Dominic stood alone in breakfast room.

Paolo entered after minute.

“You all right?”

“No.”

Good.

Paolo looked at empty chair.

“Who was the father?”

Dominic’s face hardened.

“Ethan Ward.”

Paolo stopped.

He knew.

Everyone important knew.

“Jesus.”

Dominic looked at him.

“Pull the Ward file.”

Paolo nodded.

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

Then Dominic stopped him.

“No internal review.”

Paolo frowned.

“What?”

“Outside counsel. Independent forensic firm.”

“Why?”

Dominic looked toward corridor where Claire had disappeared.

“Because last time we investigated ourselves, Ethan ended up dead.”

And five minutes of tenderness had just reopened a four-year-old crime.