him with Genevieve’s life.
He had arranged the security detail on the night she died.
He had reviewed the accident.
He had handed me the police report.
He had stood beside me at her funeral.
When we returned to Chicago, I sent him home.
Then I called an old associate named Miriam Vale.
Miriam ran security before Prescott.
She had left my company eight years earlier after a disagreement I had never fully understood.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Lawson?”
“You once told me Hale would bury me.”
Silence.
“I remember.”
“Why?”
“Because he was never loyal to you.”
“Who was he loyal to?”
Another pause.
“Genevieve’s father.”
I closed my eyes.
“He’s dead.”
“No.”
I felt the room tilt.
“Explain.”
“Your wife lied about her family.”
By sunrise, Miriam was sitting across from me.
She brought files.
Real files.
Genevieve’s father was Dr.
Adrian Valez, one of the
