“Where?”
Daniel pulled out his phone.
“My nonprofit investigation.”
I turned.
“What nonprofit?”
His expression became embarrassed.
“The photography assignment I mentioned wasn’t exactly photography.”
Of course it wasn’t.
Nothing in my life was what anyone claimed anymore.
Daniel had been helping a nonprofit group trace suspicious charitable transactions.
One foundation repeatedly appeared.
The Holloway Foundation.
Michael stared.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
Thomas had.
“It’s Mercer’s.”
Daniel searched his files.
Then showed us a photograph from a fundraising gala.
An elderly silver-haired man stood at the center.
Charles Mercer.
Beside him stood Rebecca.
Daniel’s mother.
He went pale.
“She told me she’d never met him.”
Thomas closed his eyes.
“I was afraid of that.”
Michael whispered, “Rebecca?”
Daniel shook his head.
“No.”
His phone rang.
Rebecca.
Nobody spoke.
He answered on speaker.
“Mom?”
“Daniel, where are you?”
“At the warehouse.”
Silence.
“Is Thomas there?”
“Yes.”
Her breathing changed.
