Until He Left Them Everything from His ICU Bed, and My Final Whisper Obliterated His Smug Grin.

"Elena called me three hours ago screaming," Garrett stammered, pulling a wet handkerchief from his pocket. "Julian didn't go home. He didn't go to his school. His cell phone was found smashed in a trash can behind the cathedral. The police have an active missing person's alert out, but Elena is terrified to talk to the cops because Donald told her the feds are already monitoring her communications."

I looked at this broken, sniveling shell of a man who had fathered a child and treated him like a corporate bargaining chip for thirteen years.

"Get out," I said.

Garrett blinked. "What? Clara, the files—"

"Take your files to the U.S. Attorney’s office tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM, Garrett, or Marcus will send our digital copies to the FBI tonight," I said, stepping toward him with cold fury. "And get out of my house before I call the county sheriff and have you dragged out for trespassing."

Garrett stood up, trembling, realizing there was no quarter here. He turned and stumbled out into the rain, leaving the heavy box on the counter.

I didn't call the police.

I grabbed my keys, threw on my heavy shearling coat, and walked out to the garage.

I knew where Julian was.

Richard had taken him fishing only once, three summers ago. Richard had bragged to Garrett over speakerphone in the office—unaware I was listening from the executive conference room—about taking his "son" to a secluded dock on the Minnesota River near Fort Snelling. Richard had claimed it was where "real men" connected. Julian had apparently hated it, terrified of the muddy water and Richard’s drunken shouting.

It took me thirty-five minutes to drive through the blinding rain toward the river bottoms.

The road was narrow, lined with overgrown willows and rusted industrial fencing. I pulled my SUV onto the gravel shoulder near the old boat launch. The headlights cut through the thick sheets of rain, illuminating the dilapidated wooden dock jutting out into the black, swollen water of the Minnesota River.

Sitting at the very end of the dock, his knees pulled up to his chest, was a small, drenched figure in an oversized black funeral blazer.

Julian.

I shut off the engine, turned off the headlights, and stepped out into the storm.

The wind bit through my clothes instantly, smelling of mud and decaying leaves. I walked slowly down the slippery wooden planks, my boots making deliberate, rhythmic thuds so I wouldn't startle him.

Julian didn't turn around. He just stared down at the rushing, dark water below his dangling sneakers.

"The water’s about forty-two degrees tonight, Julian," I said, stopping five feet behind him. "If you fall in, hypothermia sets in before you can swim twenty yards."

The boy’s shoulders heaved. He didn't look back.