We drove back to Chicago the next morning.
By sunset, we stood inside the decaying house where Ryan and I had grown up.
Dust covered everything.
The roof leaked.
Wallpaper peeled from the walls.
“You’ll know the room,” I whispered.
Then I knew.
Our childhood bedroom.
Ryan and I had shared it until he was sixteen.
I went to the corner near the radiator.
When we were children, Ryan had hidden comic books beneath a loose floorboard there.
Christopher watched as I pried it up.
Beneath the floor was a metal box.
Inside were flash drives.
Documents.
Photographs.
And one small prepaid phone.
Christopher stared at it.
“That could destroy Marcus.”
A floorboard creaked downstairs.
We froze.
Christopher whispered, “Did you lock the door?”
“Yes.”
Another sound.
Footsteps.
Christopher reached for his phone.
No signal.
Then Marcus Bennett appeared in the doorway.
He held a gun.
