a number saved only as A.

He is still too attached to the boy.

Then keep him tired.

Once the refinance clears we can move the rest.

The van will handle pickup if he gets emotional.

I read the lines twice, then a third time, because my brain kept refusing them.

Jordan spoke softly.

‘I heard her on the phone last night.

She said today was clean because you thought she was gone for a week.

She told him the house would be quiet by noon.’

Outside the unit, a car door slammed.

Jordan went rigid.

Another door.

Then footsteps on wet concrete.

I shut the folder and crossed to the unit opening, keeping the roll-up door lowered to shoulder height.

Through the gap at the bottom I saw three pairs of shoes stop in front of our space.

One pair did not move for a long moment.

Then a man’s voice came through, calm and almost friendly.

‘Dean? We need to talk.’

I knew the voice even though I had never heard it before.

It matched the smile in the photograph.

Aaron Bell.

Jordan’s breath turned ragged behind me.

‘Wrong unit,’ I said.

Aaron chuckled softly.

‘Let’s not do theater.

Kirsten said you’d be groggy, not difficult.’

Every muscle in my body locked.

He crouched so I could see part of his face under the door.

Same jawline as the photo.

Same easy confidence of a man who had spent years getting away with things because he never needed to raise his voice.

‘Your wife made a mess of the timing,’ he said.

‘Open up, and we can solve this without scaring the kid.’

My wife.

Not ex-wife.

Not her.

Not Kirsten.

My wife.

Jordan was already moving.

He limped to the keypad beside the inner wall and punched something in.

A siren split the building wide open.

Red strobes erupted at both ends of the corridor.

Aaron’s pleasant expression vanished instantly.

‘You little—’

The rest was swallowed by the alarm.

He stood and shouted at the other two men.

One tried to yank the unit door upward.

I braced both hands against it.

The metal shuddered.

Jordan grabbed the tire iron from beside the folding table, not to attack, but to jam through the track slot the way Mara had apparently taught him.

The door jolted and held.

My phone was still in my pocket.

I hit speaker and shouted our unit number to the 911 dispatcher who had stayed on the line after I whispered earlier that we were being followed.

The next ninety seconds felt like ninety years.

The men outside cursed.

Metal banged.

Someone ran.

Tires squealed at the far end of the property.

Then came the sound I had not realized I was begging for until I heard it: police sirens, close and multiplying.

The banging stopped.

Commands followed.

Hard voices.

Boots pounding through puddles.

A man shouted that he was unarmed.

Another shouted back too late.

When the facility manager finally keyed the outer corridor and officers ordered us to lift the door, my arms were shaking so badly I could barely do it.

Aaron Bell was on his knees in the wet lane with both hands behind his head.

He looked smaller without the smile.

One of the officers took one glance