A parking garage entrance.

Sarah felt every decision through the movement of the motorcycle.

 
Three blocks later the SUV appeared behind them again.

Hank accelerated.

Sarah squeezed tighter.

“You could have mentioned this part!”

“Would you have gotten on?”

“No!”

“That’s why I didn’t.”

Despite everything, a terrified laugh escaped her.

Then the SUV gained on them.

The laugh vanished.

Hank took a sharp right into a parking structure.

He climbed three levels, crossed behind a row of concrete pillars, descended another ramp, then exited through the opposite side.

The SUV missed the turn.

 
Two minutes later Hank parked beneath an abandoned warehouse loading canopy.

He killed the engine.

Silence crashed down around them.

Sarah climbed off.

Her legs almost folded.

She tore the helmet from her head.

“What the hell is happening?”

Hank remained seated for several seconds.

Sarah pointed at him.

“You know my name. You know where I live. You know where I work. You apparently know two men following me. You say my father is dead when I’ve spent my entire life believing he walked away.”

 
Hank looked exhausted.

“Sarah—”

“No. You talk now.”

Hank slowly reached into the inside pocket of his vest.

Sarah recoiled.

He stopped.

“Photograph.”

He removed an old picture.

Sarah took it cautiously.

Two young men stood beside a battered red pickup.

One was clearly Hank, perhaps thirty years younger.

The other man was leaner.

Dark hair.

Crooked smile.

Sarah stared at his face.

Something inside her shifted.

The man's eyes were hers.

Not similar.

Hers.

She raised the photograph closer.

 
“Who is he?”

Hank answered quietly.

“Frank Mitchell.”

Sarah's hands began trembling.

“No.”

“Your father.”

“No.”

“He was twenty-six when that was taken.”

Sarah stared.

She had imagined her father thousands of times.

Sometimes tall.

Sometimes short.

Sometimes rich.

Sometimes poor.

Sometimes regretful.

Sometimes cruel.

But she had never imagined a face.

Her mother had never shown her one.

“Why would she tell me he abandoned us?”

“To keep you from searching for him.”

“Why?”

“Because searching would have gotten you noticed.”

Sarah looked at Hank.

“By who?”

Hank sighed.

“A man named Dale Cutter.”

The name meant nothing.

That somehow made it worse.

“Who is he?”

“Someone who should have been in prison before you learned to walk.”

Hank climbed off the motorcycle.

“Your father worked for him.”

Sarah looked again at the photograph.

“What kind of work?”

“The kind people don’t put on tax returns.”

Sarah’s stomach tightened.

“He was a criminal?”

“Yes.”

The answer came without hesitation.

Sarah looked offended despite herself.

“You could soften it.”

“He would hate that.”

“You knew him that well?”

Hank looked at the photograph.

“Better than almost anyone.”

Sarah waited.

Hank continued.

“Frank handled transportation, cash movements, shell companies, deliveries. Cutter trusted him because Frank was smart and because he didn’t ask questions.”

“Until?”

“Until you.”

Sarah’s eyes lifted.

Hank’s voice softened.

“When your mother told Frank she was pregnant, he changed.”

“You expect me to believe becoming a father magically turned him into a good person?”

“No.”

Hank’s answer surprised her.

“He remained complicated. He had done things he regretted. He had helped people who deserved prison. You don’t erase that because you decide to become better.”

Hank paused.

“But he did decide.”

Sarah looked down.

“He started copying Cutter’s records. Bank accounts. Payments. Names. Routes. People on payroll.”

“Police?”

“Some.”

“Judges?”

“Yes.”

“Federal people?”

Hank hesitated.

“One.”

Sarah exhaled.

“And Cutter discovered him?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Hank looked away.

“He disappeared on a Tuesday.”

Sarah waited.

“We found him Thursday morning.”

The words were gentle.

The meaning wasn't.

Sarah wrapped her arms around herself.

“My mother was pregnant?”

“Seven months.”

“Did she see him?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I wouldn't let her.”

Sarah looked sharply at him.

“You?”

“I got her out of the city that night.”

“You told my mother what to do?”

“She asked me to.”

“And you've been watching us ever since?”

Hank nodded.

“For twenty-four years?”

“Not every minute.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“I know.”

Sarah turned away.

Her chest hurt.

Twenty-four years of birthdays rushed through her head.

Twenty-four Father's Days she had ignored.

Twenty-four years of telling friends she didn’t care about a man who had never cared about her.

Twenty-four years of pretending abandonment couldn't hurt if she made the story simple enough.

Her voice cracked.

“He didn’t leave?”

Hank's eyes filled with something he quickly controlled.

“No.”

“Did he know I was a girl?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Ultrasound.”

“Was he disappointed?”

Hank almost smiled.

“He bought pink socks three months before you were born.”

Sarah covered her mouth.

That did it.

Not the criminal organization.

Not the pursuit.

Not the photograph.

The socks.

She turned away because suddenly she was crying too hard to look at a stranger.

Hank didn't touch her.

He simply stood nearby.

Sarah wiped her face angrily.

“I need to see my mother.”

“Yes.”

“Now.”

“Yes.”

Hank started toward the motorcycle.

Sarah caught his vest.

“One more question.”

He turned.

“Those men. Why now?”

Hank's expression darkened.

“For twenty-four years Cutter believed your father hid something before he died.”

“The evidence?”

“We never found it.”

“Then why come after me?”

“Because someone recently convinced Cutter that you know where it is.”

Sarah stared.

“I don’t.”

“I believe you.”

“Does he?”

“No.”

Hank looked toward the street.

“And there's something else.”

Sarah waited.

“Three days ago someone sent Cutter an anonymous photograph.”

“Of what?”

“You.”

Sarah's throat tightened.

“Standing outside your apartment.”

Chapter Three — The Woman Who Lied
Sarah’s mother lived in a small second-floor apartment overlooking a narrow street lined with flowering trees.

The building had always felt ordinary.

That morning it looked like a trap.

Hank parked two blocks away.

“Why not closer?”

“Because anyone watching the building will expect us to.”

“You say things like that very casually.”

“I've had practice.”

They approached through an alley and entered from the rear.

Sarah climbed the stairs quickly.

She knocked three times.

“Mom?”

The lock turned.

Diana Mitchell opened the door wearing gardening gloves.

She saw Sarah.

Then Hank.

The color disappeared from her face.

The gloves slipped from her hands.

“Hank.”

Sarah heard the name.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

Familiarity.

Her heart sank.

“You know him.”

Diana looked at her daughter.

“Sarah—”

“You know him.”

Hank entered and locked the door.

“Two of Cutter’s men came into the diner.”

Diana grabbed the edge of the hallway table.

“No.”

“They moved on her.”

“You told me she was safe.”

“I told you she was safe yesterday.”

Sarah laughed once.

There was no humor in it.

“Wonderful. Apparently everybody gets secret briefings about my life except me.”

Diana stepped toward her.

“Baby—”

“Don't.”

Sarah pulled out the photograph.

Her mother's face collapsed.

Sarah held it between them.

“Who is this?”

Diana closed her eyes.

“Sarah.”

“Say his name.”

Diana sat down slowly.

“Frank.”

“My father?”

A long silence.

Then:

“Yes.”

Sarah felt the answer physically.

“How did he die?”

Diana looked toward Hank.

“No.”

Sarah stepped between them.

“Do not look at him. Look at me.”

Diana did.

“How did my father die?”

“He was killed.”

Sarah's jaw tightened.