“So after he sells the death certificate, Borenson retires and goes into seclusion.”

“My father had neutralized the threat and Mr. Grant had to back down, again. A few months later I went to New York, to college.”

“But Charles Grant wouldn’t let you go,” Talia murmured. “You were his.”

“I can only guess he’d influenced Marcy over the years until she sought me out. I guess she would have hated me because of what my father did to her and her family.”

Talia’s sigh was heavy and sad. “Now we have our connection. I’ll call Chase and give him the update. Gather up the journals and I’ll help you carry them out to the car.”

Talia rose and walked to the foyer to make her call, but Susannah simply sat motionless, staring at the journals. So much pain, so much misery. All for greed, for mastery. It was a damn game to them. And I was their pawn.

Wearily she brought the journals and ledgers up from the deep floor safe, then stared. Beneath the ledgers were bundles of cash. Lots of cash. “Talia? Come h…”

The word trailed off as Susannah looked over her shoulder and her heart stuttered to a stop. Talia wasn’t standing in the doorway. Bobby was. She wore a malevolent grin and in her left hand she held a gun with a silencer. “Welcome home, little sister.”

Dutton, Monday, February 5, 1:20 p.m.

Charles Grant sat in a folding chair at Janet Bowie’s graveside service, his hands somberly folded atop his walking stick. At the other funerals he’d had ringside seats, but today he and the two old men from the barbershop bench had been relegated to the back. Which was better, actually. From here he could see everyone. From here, he could surreptitiously check his cell phone when it buzzed in his pocket.

It was a text message. From Paul, he hoped, saying Daniel Vartanian and Alex Fallon were ensconced in the interrogation room in his basement. But disappointment speared. It was the throwaway cell he’d given Bobby last night. Disappointment abruptly became anticipation. The text read SHOWTIME.

Bobby had Susannah. I have to get out there. He feigned a wince, clenching his walking stick. “My sciatica,” he murmured to Dr. Fink, the dentist, on his right. He rose stiffly, grimacing in affected pain. “I need to move.” He did so, murmuring apologies as he moved through the crowd. It was finally time to see Susannah die.

But then he’d have to deal with Bobby. He’d lost control of her, so he’d have to kill her. He rubbed the head of his walking stick. Just like I killed my Darcy six years ago.

Dutton, Monday, February 5, 1:30 p.m.

“Goddammit,” Luke snapped. Bobby was not hiding in Charles Grant’s house.

Pete looked around Grant’s living room. “Ready to start tearing out the walls?”

“Not quite. At least Grant’s still at the cemetery.” Germanio had confirmed that ten minutes before. “He still doesn’t know we’re here or that we’re on to him.”

They’d approached in stealth, difficult when the media had converged on Dutton for Janet Bowie’s funeral. He and Chase had debated having Dutton’s new sheriff secure Grant’s house in the event Bobby had been hiding, but they couldn’t be certain there weren’t more dirty deputies who’d alert Bobby or Grant. Instead, Luke once again called on Arcadia’s Sheriff Corchran, who’d put himself and a trusted deputy on silent patrol.

Corchran had also told Luke’s team how to approach without getting snarled in the funeral traffic. Luke’s hopes had been high entering Grant’s modest frame house off Main Street. Now… he could only hope the house itself would hold an answer.

His team waited impatiently. “The warrant covers Bobby’s whereabouts and the crimes in the bunker.” It had been the best Chloe had been able to do. “Keep looking.”

The team scattered, Pete going upstairs, Nancy down. Luke tackled the living room, but there was nothing to indicate this man was anything other than what he purported himself to be-a retired high school English teacher.

Luke stared at one wall. And a community theater director. The wall held playbills from productions Grant had directed, including a school production of Snow White in which he’d cast Bobby in the lead. Luke thought of little Kate Davis being “thoughtlessly” cast as a squirrel, earning the nickname “Rocky.” How thoughtless had it been? Garth had told them that Bobby had “made Kate beautiful.” Destroying Kate’s self-esteem only to build her back up was a great way to guarantee loyalty.

Grant’s bookshelves sagged under the weight of hundreds of books, and Luke began checking each one. Homer, Plutarch, Dante… He sighed. Nothing but a lot of words.

“Luke!” Nancy called from the basement, urgency in her voice. “Come and see.”

Luke took the stairs two at a time. “Is it Bobby?”

Nancy stood by a steel-reinforced door set in a wall of concrete. “No, it’s a bunker, just like the one we found in Mansfield’s basement,” she said. “Mansfield used his to store his guns, ammo, and kiddie porn. Charles Grant… well, look for yourself.” She opened the door and the smell was intolerable. The sight was worse.

It was a torture chamber, with shackles in the walls and shelves of carefully sorted knives. In the middle of the room was a raised slab, making Luke think of Frankenstein’s lab. On the bed was a man. Or he’d been one, before he’d been carved into ribbons.

“Borenson’s dead.” Luke crossed the threshold and stared. In the corner were an easy chair and a lamp on a doily-covered table. “My God. Grant sat there and watched.”

Nancy pointed to a CD player on the small table. “While he listened to Mozart.”

Luke studied Borenson’s body. “What did Borenson have or know that Charles Grant wanted? He was tortured over a period of time. Some of these cuts look days old.” He backed out of the room. “Close the door so we can breathe. Good work, Nancy.”

“Thanks. This bunker was hidden.” She shut the heavy steel door, then pulled a second pocket door from the wall. “It looks like a real wall when it’s pulled all the way across. Mansfield had his sliding wall half open, so we found his bunker fast. When I saw this wall I knew it was the same. There might be other hidden rooms in this house.”

“Bobby could still be here, hiding. Keep looking.” Luke climbed the stairs, but before he had a chance to dial Chase, his phone began buzzing. It was Chase, and from the road noise, he was in his car. “It doesn’t look like Bobby’s here,” Luke said, “but Borenson’s body is. He’s been tortured. Germanio can arrest Charles Grant.”

“Contact Germanio, have him make the arrest. Did you find anything on Bobby?”

“No, but we’re still looking.” Luke heard a tenseness in Chase’s voice that had his pulse scrambling. “Is Susannah all right?” The thought of her facing that house again made him sick. But Talia believed they’d found a connection to Darcy, so Chase had okayed it. Luke didn’t think he could have, so it was a good thing Chase was in charge.

“She’s fine,” Chase said. “It’s that cop Agent Grimes saw in Charlotte, Paul Houston. We got his photo. Luke, it’s the guy Susannah described to the sketch artist.”

Luke’s jaw dropped. “What? An Atlanta cop raped Susannah in New York?”

“That’s what it looks like. But there’s more. This morning Paul Houston was assigned to guard Daniel’s house when he got home from the hospital. Houston specifically requested it.”

Luke’s blood ran cold. “Oh my God.”

“Daniel’s fine. I called him as soon as I knew. Apparently there was a problem with his dog making a mess in his house. Your mother called one of your cousins.”

Luke exhaled in relief. “Nick. He’s got a carpet-cleaning business. Is he all right?”