Cross answered on the fourth ring.
“You know it’s nearly midnight?”
“I need something investigated.”
“That usually is why people call me.”
“Five years ago. Hannah Mercer. Westbridge Women’s Center. Bank transfers. Hotel surveillance photographs. Everything.”
Silence.
Then Cross said, “Hannah Mercer?”
“You know the name?”
Another pause.
“Ethan…”
His stomach tightened.
“What?”
“You really don’t know?”
The exact same words.
“Know what?”
Cross exhaled.
“I can’t tell you this over the phone.”
“You can and you will.”
“I signed an agreement.”
“With whom?”
“I said too much already.”
Ethan’s voice turned dangerously calm.
“Daniel.”
“Talk to your brother.”
The call ended.
Ethan stared at the phone.
Richard.
Again.
At 2:13 a.m., while Hannah slept, a woman entered St. Catherine’s through the private physicians’ entrance.
She wore an expensive cream coat and carried no umbrella despite the rain.
Margaret Caldwell had spent thirty years mastering the art of appearing calm.
