“And you told me he abandoned us.”

“Yes.”

“Every time I asked?”

“Yes.”

“When I cried because everyone else had fathers at school?”

Diana's eyes flooded.

“Yes.”

“When I asked whether I looked like him?”

“Yes.”

“When I said maybe one day he'd come back?”

Diana covered her mouth.

Sarah’s voice cracked.

“You let me hate him.”

“I needed you not to look.”

“For twenty-four years?”

“I needed you alive.”

Sarah turned away.

Hank moved to the window.

He lifted one blind a fraction.

Diana whispered, “You think I didn’t want to tell you?”

“I don't know what you wanted.”

“I wanted to tell you everything.”

“But you didn't.”

“Because the truth had names attached to it, Sarah. Names you might search. Places you might visit. People you might contact.”

Diana stood.

“I knew my daughter. You never accepted half an answer. At six years old you opened the back of the television because you wanted to know where the people lived.”

Sarah almost smiled.

Almost.

Diana continued.

“If I told you Frank was murdered, you would have spent your life trying to understand why.”

“So you made him a coward instead?”

Diana flinched.

“I made him unreachable.”

The room fell silent.

Hank suddenly spoke from the window.

“We need to move.”

Sarah turned.

“What?”

A black SUV passed slowly.

Diana saw it too.

Her face changed.

“Cutter?”

“Maybe.”

Hank moved away from the window.

“Pack identification, medication, nothing else.”

Sarah stared.

“We're running?”

“For now.”

“No.”

Hank looked at her.

“No?”

“No more running. No more lies. Tell me what they want.”

Diana shook her head.

“We don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

Sarah pointed to the photograph.

“Hank said my father copied evidence.”

Diana’s silence confirmed it.

“Where is it?”

“We never found it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Diana stared at the floor.

Sarah understood.

“You know.”

Hank turned.

“Diana?”

Her mother looked ashamed.

“I know where he said he put it.”

Hank’s entire body went still.

“You told me you didn't.”

“I told everyone I didn't.”

“For twenty-four years?”

“I had to.”

Hank crossed the room.

“Where?”

Diana didn't answer.

“Diana.”

“He left instructions.”

“Where?”

“Waterfront Park.”

Sarah looked between them.

Diana continued.

“The bench where I told him I was pregnant.”

Hank stared at her.

“All this time?”

“Yes.”

“You knew?”

“I knew where he said it was.”

“Why didn't you retrieve it?”

“Because Frank told me never to unless they came for Sarah.”

Silence.

Sarah whispered, “He knew?”

“He suspected Cutter would keep looking.”

Diana walked to the kitchen.

She reached behind the refrigerator and pulled out a dusty manila envelope.

Inside was a folded sheet of paper.

The handwriting was blocky.

Precise.

Sarah read the first line.

FOR DIANA.

Below it:

IF THEY EVER COME FOR OUR DAUGHTER, IT MEANS THE LIE FAILED.

Sarah's breath caught.

Diana touched the paper.

“I have read that sentence once a year for twenty-four years.”

Sarah continued reading.

Third bench from the east entrance.

Left support.

The key is her full birthday written out.

No numbers.

Sarah looked up.

“My birthday opens it?”

Diana nodded.

Hank paced once across the room.

“We retrieve it and give it to federal prosecutors.”

Diana looked frightened.

“Hank.”

“It’s time.”

“You said federal people were compromised.”

“Not the one I know.”

Sarah frowned.

“You have a federal contact?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Hank didn't answer.

A hard knock struck the apartment door.

Everyone froze.

A second knock came.

Not polite.

Heavy.

Hank moved toward the hallway.

“Roof access?”

“North stairwell,” Diana whispered.

“Fire escape?”

“East.”

Another impact hit the door.

The frame shook.

Sarah grabbed the envelope.

Hank opened the apartment's rear utility door.

“Move.”

Diana stared at Sarah.

“I'm sorry.”

Sarah grabbed her mother's hand.

“You can apologize when we're somewhere nobody is breaking into.”

For the first time that morning, Diana smiled through tears.

Then they ran.

Chapter Four — The Rooftops
The north stairwell smelled like concrete dust and bleach.

They climbed.

Behind them came the unmistakable sound of the apartment door giving way.

Sarah looked back.

“Faster.”

Hank climbed below both women.

Not because he was slower.

Because he was putting himself between them and whoever was following.

Second floor.

Third.

Fourth.

Footsteps entered the stairwell beneath them.

More than one person.

Diana began breathing hard.

“I can't—”

“You can,” Sarah said.

They reached the roof.

Hank shoved the metal door open.

Cold wind struck them.

Across the rooftop, another building stood separated by a narrow alley.

The gap was perhaps seven feet.

It looked like seventy.

Diana stopped.

“No.”

Hank examined the distance.

“We don't have another exit.”

“I'm fifty-six.”

“You look forty-nine.”

“This is not the moment.”

The rooftop door shuddered.

Someone hit it from the other side.

Sarah took her mother’s hand.

“Mom.”

Diana looked at her.

“You lied to me for twenty-four years.”

“I know.”

“You owe me.”

Diana almost laughed.

“For what?”

“For jumping seven feet.”

Another impact.

Sarah squeezed her hand.

“Together.”

Hank moved to the opposite roof first.

He jumped easily, landed, turned.

“Sarah.”

She backed up.

Ran.

Jumped.

For one terrifying instant there was no ground beneath her.

Then gravel struck her shoes.

She stumbled.

Hank caught her.

The door behind Diana burst partly open.

Sarah spun.

“Mom!”

Diana ran.

Jumped.

Her leading foot struck the roof edge.

She slipped.

Sarah screamed.

Hank lunged forward and caught Diana’s wrist.

Sarah grabbed her other arm.

Together they pulled her onto the roof.

Diana lay gasping.

“Seven feet,” she whispered. “You said seven feet.”

“I estimated.”

“You are terrible at estimating.”

Hank almost smiled.

Then the men appeared on the opposite rooftop.

“Move.”

They reached the fire escape.

Down four floors.

Across another alley.

Into a parking lot.

Hank's gray pickup waited near a loading dock.

Sarah looked at him.

“You had another vehicle?”

“I have several.”

“Of course you do.”

They climbed inside.

Hank drove away as two men reached the alley.

Sarah looked through the rear window.

The narrow-faced man stopped chasing.

He pulled out a phone.

That scared Sarah more.

“He's calling someone.”

Hank nodded.

“He doesn't need to chase if he knows where we're going.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

Sarah looked at the envelope.

“Waterfront Park.”

“He’ll assume it eventually.”

Diana stared ahead.

“How much time?”

“Not enough.”

Sarah leaned forward.

“Call your federal contact.”

Hank's hands tightened on the wheel.

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to know something first.”

“What?”

He looked at Diana in the mirror.

“Who else knew about the bench?”

Diana shook her head.

“No one.”

“Think.”

“Frank. Me.”

“And?”

“You.”

“I didn't know.”

“You knew where we met.”

“Not where he hid anything.”

Sarah looked between them.

“What are you saying?”

Hank's voice remained flat.

“Cutter didn't suddenly wake up after twenty-four years and decide Sarah knows something. Somebody told him.”

Diana looked frightened.

“Hank.”

“Someone knows enough to point him at her.”

Sarah whispered, “Maybe someone found the letter.”

“No,” Diana said. “It never left my apartment.”

Hank glanced at the envelope.

“Until today.”

Silence settled over the truck.

Then Hank pulled out an old flip phone.

Sarah stared.

“What decade are we in?”

“The safe one.”