Eventually, she entered an industrial district with no parks, no stores, and absolutely no reason for a seven-year-old to be there.
Her SUV stopped behind a windowless brick building.
I parked half a block away and watched her lead Fiona toward a steel door.
Then it opened.
A man stepped outside.
The instant I saw his face, my hands tightened around the steering wheel.
Because according to my wife, that man had been dead for eight years.
The man standing at the steel door was Arthur Vance.
Jessi’s father.
My daughter’s grandfather.
Eight years earlier, I had stood beside Jessi at his funeral while Wendy sobbed over a mahogany coffin that looked strangely empty.
Yet Arthur was alive.
And Wendy had been secretly bringing Fiona to see him.
I waited until the door shut, then crossed the street.
Through a narrow side window, I saw Fiona seated at a table while Arthur laid several photographs in front of her.
“Which man came to your house last Thursday?” he asked.
Fiona pointed hesitantly.
My blood went cold.
Those weren’t family photos.
They showed me, my business partners, my security chief—and men I recognized from confidential acquisition meetings.
Wendy stood behind Fiona. “Remember what Grandma taught you,” she said softly.
I reached for my phone.
Then Arthur asked something that stopped me.
