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through the high grass. There are signs warning me about trespassing. I don’t much care. The farm has been in the Sinclair family for three generations. The Reverend was born in that farmhouse. But I am more interested in the caretaker.

I didn’t buy Reverend Calvin Sinclair’s reasons for not letting the world know who “R.L.” was once Arlo Sugarman died. He could say he had just learned his identity. There was no real danger in the truth anymore. The Reverend was also so ready for my arrival at his church, and thus I suspected that he had been warned, which, it turns out, he had been. Elena Randolph had called him within minutes of our confrontation.

With all that in mind, I did, as I told PT, have my people call not just the crematorium St. Timothy’s normally uses but all the local ones. I also had them check the county death records. In both cases, they found nothing matching anyone with the initials RL who died on June 15, 2011. In fact, there were no male deaths matching Arlo Sugarman’s description—age and height anyway—at all during that time.

When I walk up through the farm’s gate, I turn right. A man steps into view. He looks to be his age—sixty-six years old—with a shaved head. He is also the right height.

“Can I help you?” the man asks.

I can still hear the slightest hint of a Brooklyn accent.

Arlo Sugarman didn’t show up the night they tried to firebomb the Freedom Hall because he didn’t believe in that kind of destruction. He ended up caught up in something beyond his control and spent his life on the run. If I told PT the truth, would he have wanted to take Arlo in and bring him to trial? Or would he have seen it the way I do?

I don’t know. It isn’t PT’s call anyway. It’s mine.

“It isn’t over,” I tell him. “You need to run again.”

“Pardon?”

The back door of the farmhouse slams open. Calvin Sinclair hurries out. When he sees me, he starts to rush, obviously concerned by my intrusion, but the man with the Brooklyn accent puts up his palm to stop him.

“I figured out you’re still alive,” I say. “Someone else could too.”

The man looks as though he’s about to make denials or arguments, but instead he nods at me and says, “Thank you.”

My gaze moves to Calvin Sinclair, then back to Arlo Sugarman. I almost ask what they are going to do now. But I don’t. I have done my part. The rest is up to them. I turn and head back down the hill.

I still have one more stop to make.

*  *  *

As I pull off Hickory Place and up the long driveway, I see the old baronial mansion in the distance. I am back in New Jersey. Ema lives here with her movie star mother, Angelica Wyatt. I soon spot them both waiting for me by the front door.

I think by now you’ve guessed that I’ve told no one about Cousin Patricia. She gunned down a monster—a monster, per my own justification with Teddy “Big T” Lyons, who would have continued to maim and kill. There is no reason for Cousin Patricia, who ended up doing so much good, to pay any sort of price for that. I admit that I may be slightly biased because this decision also neatly fits into both my personal narrative and my own self-interest.

I don’t want my father and my family scandalized.

But regardless, I think this decision is just. You may disagree. Too bad.

When I park and get out of the car, Ema runs from the door to greet me. She doesn’t break stride as she wraps her arms around me, holding me tight, and I feel something in my chest crack open.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m groovy,” I say.

“Win?”

Ema buries her face in my chest. I let her.

“What?”

“Don’t ever use the word ‘groovy’ again, okay?”

“Okay.”

I look over her shoulder and see her mother watching us. Angelica is not happy to see me. I meet her eye and try to give her a reassuring smile, but that does little to placate her. She does not want me here. I understand.

Angelica spins away and heads inside.

Ema pulls back and looks at me. “You’ll tell me everything?”

“Everything,” I reply.

But I’m not sure that’s true.

As I look at my daughter’s face, I flash back to the night before.

I’m in bed with Username Helena. My phone rings. It’s Kabir.

“We have a big problem.”

“What is it?”

“We lost Trey Lyons.”

I snap up fast, startling Helena. “Details,” I say.

But you don’t need the details. You don’t need the details of how my men lost Trey Lyons’s SUV on Eisenhower Parkway. You don’t need the details of how I surmised that Trey Lyons had eyes on the Dakota, how those eyes must have spotted Ema, how they followed her back, how stupid I felt not to have realized that earlier. You don’t need the details on my call to Angelica at two a.m., how I told her to hide in the basement with Ema. You don’t need the details on how fast I rushed out here, how I parked on Hickory Place, how I ran up the drive wearing night goggles with a Desert Eagle .50 cal semiautomatic in my hand. You don’t need to know how I spotted Trey Lyons breaking in through a back window. You don’t need to know that I didn’t call out to him, didn’t tell him to put his hands up, didn’t give him a chance to surrender.

This one may seem to be another gray to you. But it is not.

This one was easy. This one was black and white.

He came for my daughter. My. Daughter.

“Come on,” Ema says. “Let’s go inside.”

I nod. It’s a warm, sun-kissed day. The sky is the kind of blue only something celestial could have painted. Ema leads the way. She is wearing a top with spaghetti straps, so I can see her upper back. As we get closer to the door, I