Hank drove faster than before.

Nobody complained.

Diana sat rigidly.

“What house?”

“My mother left it to Tommy.”

Hank’s voice was distant.

“We grew up there.”

“You never checked?”

“Once.”

“When?”

“Seventeen years ago.”

Sarah laughed bitterly.

“Before my father was transferred there.”

“Yes.”

The farmhouse appeared after sunset.

Dark.

Weathered.

A barn leaned beside it.

Marsh arrived with agents minutes later.

They searched room by room.

No one.

Dust.

Old furniture.

Empty cabinets.

Then Sarah found a bedroom.

The walls held photographs.

Not Frank.

Her.

Sarah at eight.

Walking into school.

Sarah at twelve on a bicycle.

Sarah at sixteen graduating.

Sarah at nineteen outside a community college.

Sarah at twenty-one working in a bakery.

Sarah stepped backward.

“He watched me.”

Hank entered.

His face drained.

“Tommy.”

Diana whispered, “Why?”

On the desk lay dozens of notebooks.

Marsh opened one.

Most entries were about Sarah.

April 18. Birthday. Watched from across street. She laughed with mother.

Another.

Graduation. Frank asked if she looked happy. Told him yes.

Diana almost collapsed.

Sarah grabbed the notebook.

“What?”

She read again.

Frank asked if she looked happy.

Hank stared.

“Frank was here.”

Sarah flipped pages frantically.

Entries began six years ago.

Frank wakes at 5:20.

Frank remembers Diana today.

Frank asked about Sarah.

Frank refuses medication.

Frank wants to leave.

Then, three years ago:

Tommy sick.

Frank caring for him.

Sarah whispered, “My father cared for the man who kept him prisoner.”

Hank shook his head.

“Tommy may not have kept him prisoner here.”

Marsh looked at the entries.

“He might have brought him here after Cedar Ridge.”

Diana found a letter.

Addressed to Hank.

Never mailed.

Hank opened it.

The handwriting belonged to Thomas.

Hank,

I don't expect forgiveness.

When Marsh died, I kept Frank where he was because I was afraid.

At first I told myself I was protecting you.

Then I told myself I was protecting Sarah.

Truth is simpler.

I was ashamed.

Hank sat down.

Sarah continued reading over his shoulder.

Frank stopped remembering his own name.

By the time I got him out of Cedar Ridge, he barely remembered Diana.

But he remembered the word Sarah.

Diana sobbed.

I brought him here.

I told myself I'd call you when he recovered.

He never fully did.

Then years passed.

And every year made the next confession harder.

Hank’s hands trembled.

I watched Sarah because Frank asked.

I showed him photographs.

I told him stories.

When my heart started failing, I tried to tell him everything.

I finally told him where Hank lived.

But Frank said he wasn't ready.

Hank whispered, “Why?”

The letter answered.

He said if Sarah had grown up believing he abandoned her, appearing as a damaged stranger might only hurt her more.

Sarah closed her eyes.

“No.”

Diana whispered, “Frank.”

Last winter he disappeared.

I searched.

I never found him.

If you're reading this, I probably ran out of time.

Tell Frank I'm sorry.

Tell Sarah her father never stopped asking whether she was happy.

Hate me if you need to.

I deserve it.

Tommy.

Hank folded the letter.

For a long moment no one spoke.

Sarah looked around the room.

Six years ago her father had been alive here.

Maybe four.

Maybe three.

Maybe yesterday.

“Where would he go?”

Hank stared at the wall photographs.

“I don't know.”

Diana looked at one.

Sarah at age nineteen wearing an apron outside the bakery.

Then another.

Sarah at twenty-one.

Another.

Sarah at twenty-three.

Diana frowned.

“These aren't from Tommy.”

Hank looked.

“What?”

“The dates.”

She pointed.

“Tommy was already sick.”

Sarah examined the latest photograph.

Taken six months ago.

Her outside the diner.

Someone had written beneath it:

SHE SMILES LIKE DIANA.

Sarah stopped breathing.

The handwriting was not Tommy's.

Hank recognized it.

His knees nearly gave way.

“Frank.”

Sarah stared.

“My father took this?”

Diana touched the image.

Six months ago.

Frank had been near her.

Sarah turned to Hank.

“You've been watching me for four days.”

“Yes.”

“Who told you to?”

Hank froze.

Sarah's mind raced.

“Why did you suddenly start following me?”

Hank looked away.

“Hank.”

He reached into his vest.

Pulled out a folded note.

“I found this on my motorcycle five mornings ago.”

Sarah opened it.

Four lines.

Watch the girl.

They found her.

Don't let them take her.

You still owe me one ride.

Hank pointed to the final sentence.

“Frank used to say that.”

Diana whispered, “He's alive.”

Sarah’s eyes filled.

“He's alive.”

Hank nodded.

“And close enough to leave me a note.”

Marsh looked at Sarah.

“Then the anonymous photograph sent to Cutter—”

Sarah finished.

“Could have come from him.”

Marsh nodded.

“And the package sent to your office.”

Hank stood.

“Frank started this.”

Diana stared.

“Why?”

Sarah looked at the evidence spread across the desk.

Because Frank had been hiding for years.

Because he had watched his daughter from a distance.

Because he knew Cutter.

Hank.

Marsh.

Everyone.

Then Sarah understood.

“He didn't send them the same information.”

Marsh frowned.

“What?”

“He gave Cutter enough to move on me.”

Hank stared.

“He gave you enough to reopen the case.”

Sarah nodded.

“And he gave Hank enough to protect me.”

Diana whispered, “He's forcing everyone into the same room.”

Marsh looked disturbed.

“For what?”

Sarah looked at the latest photograph.

Her father’s handwriting.

“To finish something.”

Chapter Ten — The Fourth Man
They returned to the diner just before dawn the next morning.

Sarah insisted.

“If he has been watching me, he'll know where I go.”

Hank objected.

“You don't know that.”

“He photographed me here.”

Marsh placed federal agents outside.

Diana sat in booth six.

The same booth where everything had started.

Sarah poured coffee.

Nobody drank it.

Six thirty.

Seven.

Seven fifteen.

Nothing.

Sarah stood behind the counter.

“Maybe he's not coming.”

The bell above the entrance rang.

Everyone turned.

An elderly man entered.

Thin.

Gray beard.

Brown coat.

He walked slowly with a cane.

Sarah's heart jumped.

The man glanced around.

Then sat at the counter.

Not Frank.

Sarah exhaled.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

His voice was unfamiliar.

She poured.

He looked at her name tag.

“Sarah.”

“Yes.”

“Pretty name.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled.

“Your father picked it.”

The coffee pot slipped.

The man caught it.

Sarah froze.

Across the diner Hank stood.

The elderly man looked at him.

For several seconds neither spoke.

Then Hank whispered:

“Frank?”

The old man smiled.

Hank crossed the diner in three steps.

He stopped inches away.

The two men stared at each other.

Twenty-four years existed between them.

Hank’s face crumpled.

Frank lifted one hand.

Touched Hank's shoulder.

“You got old.”

Hank laughed and cried at the same time.

“You look terrible.”

“Good to see you too.”

Diana stood from the booth.

Frank turned.

The entire room vanished from his face.

“Diana.”

She didn't move.

Neither did he.

Then Diana crossed the diner.

She struck his chest once with both hands.

“You were alive.”

“I know.”

She struck him again.

“You were alive.”

“I know.”

Then she wrapped her arms around him.

Frank held her.

Sarah looked away.

Not because she didn't want to see.

Because it was too intimate.

Too full of lost years.

Eventually Frank looked toward her.