Then Daniel.
Then his father.
I grabbed my phone and dialed 911 as I stepped into the hallway.
Before the call connected, a hand clamped over my mouth from behind.
I slammed my heel down hard.
A man cursed.
Not Daniel.
Patrick Sloane.
I recognized him instantly despite the beard, despite the years, despite the wildness in his eyes.
He dragged me backward. I twisted, biting his palm until I tasted blood.
He released me with a snarl.
“You should’ve stayed gone,” he hissed.
I ran.
Not away from the boys.
Away from their door.
Patrick followed, limping slightly. At the staircase landing, Daniel appeared below, his coat dusted with snow, his face flushed with fury.
For a second, seeing them together made every hidden piece click into place.
The aide.
The accounts.
The forms.
The investigation.
Patrick had not been Daniel’s subordinate.
He had been his accomplice.
Daniel looked up at me.
