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I ran my hand along the hood. Lou Gimble had done a brilliant job fixing most of the damage from Dad’s two accidents. There was just a tiny dent near the front bumper he hadn’t been able to pound out. I pressed my fingers into it.

Could Dad be like Kevin Bell? Would he lie to me too? I’d suggested Geneva think about putting him somewhere he could get better care. It was a way to call his bluff. If he didn’t want to go, Kevin could make a miraculous recovery whenever he wanted to.

My father couldn’t. It could be years before I might need that kind of help with him. Or it could be next month. Dr. Ricci had been clear. You had to expect the unexpected with Dad’s disease.

I found myself standing in Dad’s office a few minutes later. The bookshelf on his back wall was filled with reminders of everything he’d accomplished in his life.

There were photos of him as a young man. An ace Navy pilot with fire in his eyes. In one, he stood next to his F-4 Phantom. The one I knew he was later shot down in. He’d been lucky, only suffering two cracked vertebrae in his lower back. It was enough to make him unfit for future flights so they tried to send him home. Dad bargained his way into a desk job in operations, staying in Vietnam for another year.

I picked up another photo of him standing next to NFL legend Jackson Smith, holding his Heisman Trophy. Dad had successfully defended him after he was charged with murdering his stepson. A stunner, that one. Smith’s brother had been the real culprit.

Then there was the photo he said he cherished most. He had his arm around my mother as she lay in a hospital bed beaming. She had me bundled in pink and nestled against her. Even then, twelve hours after delivering me, she looked perfect. She had her actual glam squad come to the hospital.

Then I knew something was wrong. Something hit the ground with a thud out in the lobby. No one should be here. Dad wouldn’t be home until after dinner. He was eating at the golf club with Lloyd. I’d left the closed sign up, needing a quiet, solo day of work.

Shuffling. Footsteps.

I thought of the open window from the other day. The spray paint on Dad’s boat.

ATRŌ TE BENEDICTO

OPUS NŌN PERFECTUM

Dad had an old-fashioned silver letter opener in a box on his desk. It had belonged to his grandfather more than a hundred years ago.

I grabbed it.

Slowly, I walked to the door. The footsteps grew louder.

This was wrong. I had no client appointments today. Neither did Dad.

Another crash. The footsteps receded, followed by the sound of drawers being opened and closed. It was the desk in the reception area.

Raising the letter opener, I made my way down the hall. My cell phone was on the charger in my office behind me. Should I go for it?

Another slammed drawer and I took three steps forward.

A dark figure hunched over the desk. He was tall, broad-shouldered and wearing a black hoodie pulled up over his ears. I remembered Geneva saying she thought a man with a similar description seemed to be following her the other night.

I raised the letter opener even higher. Sweat now pouring down the middle of my back, I shouted.

“Stop! I’ve already called the cops.”

He moved quickly; turning, he grabbed my wrist, forcing me to take a step back.

“Don’t even try it,” he said. I looked up and met his eyes. I found myself staring at the face of a killer.

Chapter

Thirty

Since Geneva stepped into my office a few weeks ago, I’d read everything I could about Derrek Sidney. Studied every known photograph of him and watched his interview with Tanya Talbot at least three times. I’d imagined what it was like for his victims as that handsome face morphed into something dangerous and those cold, penetrating eyes stared right through them the moment before their deaths.

I didn’t have to imagine it anymore. Boone Sidney’s expression mirrored his father’s. He took another step forward, forcing me against the wall as he held my right wrist in a vise grip above my head.

He jerked my hand, knocking it against the wall with enough force to dislodge the letter opener. Its clanging echo cut through me as it hit the floor.

And then Boone did the last thing I expected. He let me go.