His face changed.
He ended the call.
“What file?”
“Rachel—”
“What file?”
He looked toward the door.
“Close it.”
I set down the coffee.
“No.”
“Close the door.”
“Tell me.”
His jaw tightened.
“Please.”
That word stopped me.
Christopher Bennett did not say please.
I closed the door.
He turned toward the desk.
“Bottom drawer.”
“What?”
“Open it.”
I moved around the desk.
The drawer was locked.
He gave me the key from around his wrist.
Inside was a black folder.
My hands shook as I opened it.
The first page contained a photograph.
Ryan.
Alive.
Older.
The picture had been taken in 2013.
Three years after his supposed death.
I couldn’t breathe.
“No.”
I touched his face in the photograph.
Ryan stood beside Christopher outside a building in New York.
He looked thinner.
Harder.
But unmistakably alive.
Tears blurred everything.
“You knew.”
Christopher said nothing.
“You knew he was alive.”
“Yes.”
I slapped him.
The sound cracked through the room.
Mrs. Alvarez appeared in the doorway.
Christopher raised a hand.
