I leaned toward him.
“Do not mistake poverty for weakness.”
Christopher said nothing.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
“Okay.”
That night we opened every file.
Christopher showed me names.
Accounts.
Properties.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Marcus Bennett.
His uncle.
Another appeared beside several transactions dated after Ryan entered witness protection.
R. Mercer.
“Ryan Mercer,” I whispered.
Christopher nodded.
“His alias.”
There was one recent transaction.
Four months earlier.
A payment from a private foundation to a rehabilitation center in Wisconsin.
My pulse jumped.
“Could that be him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Call them.”
“If Marcus monitors communications—”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
Christopher’s voice sharpened.
“You have children.”
I went silent.
He was right.
That made everything harder.
Three days later, trouble arrived at the mansion.
A black Mercedes pulled up.
Mrs. Alvarez entered the library.
“Christopher.”
Her face was pale.
“Your uncle is here.”
