I didn't speak.

The line stayed open.

I could hear traffic in the background.

Wherever he was calling from, he wasn't far.

"I know she's there," Thomas said.

"I've known for a while.

I want you to understand that I've been patient.

I've given Caroline time to handle this quietly.

But patience has a limit."

"What do you want, Thomas?"

"I want the envelope." A pause.

"And I want Diane to get back in her car — whichever one she's borrowed — and drive somewhere that isn't here.

I don't care where.

I just need her gone before this becomes something none of us can walk back from."

I looked at Diane.

She was watching my face, reading it.

"And if I say no?"

"Then I make a call of my own.

To a man who has been waiting outside your house for four nights.

And things become very unpleasant very quickly for people you love." Another pause.

"I don't want that, Ryan.

I genuinely don't.

Your father was my closest friend.

I have no interest in hurting his family."

"You already hurt his family.

You took his money."

Silence on the line.

Then: "Your father made decisions in his final years that were not entirely rational.

I protected the assets.

I preserved them."

"For yourself."

"For everyone's benefit.

In time, you would have seen that." His voice shifted slightly.

Harder at the edges.

"Give me the envelope.

Send Diane away.

And this ends tonight."

I looked at Caroline.

She had her hand pressed flat against her sternum, like she was trying to hold something in.

I looked at Lily, standing in the hallway in her pajamas, too old for her age in this moment, watching me the way children watch adults when they need someone to be certain.

I looked at Mia, still asleep, one hand curled under her chin.

"I'll call you back," I said.

"Ryan—"

I ended the call.

The room was very quiet.

"He knows," Caroline said.

"He's known.

He's been letting it sit, hoping you'd solve it for him." I set my phone on the counter.

"He doesn't want a scene.

He wants this to disappear."

Diane stood up carefully, shifting Mia without waking her.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to call someone."

"Who?"

I had met Martin Reeves at a conference four years ago.

He was a financial crimes attorney.

We had stayed in loose contact — the occasional email, a lunch when he passed through the city.

I had his number because he had once said, in the way that people say things they mean but hope you'll never need: if you ever find yourself in something complicated, call me first.

I found the number.

It rang twice.

"Martin.

It's Ryan Calloway.

I'm sorry for the hour." I looked at the envelope on the counter.

"I need to know if you're still doing the kind of work we talked about at the Harmon conference."

A beat.

"Depends on what you've got," Martin said.

"Fraudulent asset transfers.

Possibly three to four million.

Documented over several years.

A witness who has been in hiding.

And a man who just called me to make it go away."

Another beat.

Longer.

"Don't touch anything in that envelope with your bare hands," Martin said.

"I'll be there by morning."

I set the phone down.

Diane was looking at me the way she used to when we were children and I had done something she hadn't expected.

"You're not sending me away," she said.

"No."

"He'll escalate."

"I know."

She was quiet for a moment.

Then: "Ryan.

The man outside.

He's not just watching."

I looked at her.

"Thomas doesn't send watchers," she said.

"He sends people who wait for a signal."

I went back to the window.

The sedan was gone.