There was no need to wait for Faye. He had already instructed her on what to do.

The windows were long and wide, and, maybe because of the lack of neighbors, the owners didn’t feel the need to draw the blinds. Sebastian brought the binoculars up to his face.

He had once shown a house that had a “drawing room”—a seventeenth-century term for a space designated for receiving and entertaining guests before and after dinner. The room he was now looking at was nowhere near as wide and cavernous and as opulent as the one from his memory, but this space—with its tall stucco walls, fireplace, abundant furniture, and, in the far corner near the pool table, a bar large enough to seat six people comfortably—was clearly used for entertaining.

Sebastian counted six men, each one dressed in a suit, each one clearly from somewhere in the Middle East. They wore serious expressions and sipped from small bottles of Pellegrino. He assumed they were all armed. He wondered who they were waiting for—who Paul was meeting.

If Ron hadn’t abandoned him, he could have grabbed a license plate and had Ron get a name with a few clicks of the mouse.

When this is over, I’m going to pay him a visit, Sebastian thought.

No. No, he wouldn’t. After this was over, it was over. He was going to be living a completely different life—one with his daughter and, hopefully, Ava.

He heard Faye step up beside him, her breath coming hard and fast from behind her mask. He had also given her a black Windbreaker with a hood.

“Find anything?” she asked, after she caught her breath.

“Just more guys from the goon squad. I’m going to see if I can get a better view.”

Sebastian withdrew the binoculars and moved back toward the driveway gate, which was open. He’d left it open in case, for whatever reason, they had to make a quick exit.

When he had a solid view of the front of the house, he looked through his binoculars again.

Saw Paul standing in the spacious foyer next to some old guy Frank would have called a Q-tip.

Sebastian felt a fierce stab of joy. He had found Paul. Paul was here, and Paul didn’t know Sebastian was here.

Another man came into view—another tough-looking goon. Sebastian increased the magnification and said, “I’ve got a visual on Paul, some old white dude, and a guy who—”

Sebastian cut himself off when he saw the muscled goon holding the arm of a young woman wearing a black cocktail dress. Her hands were behind her back, as if she was handcuffed, and she was crying. The men ignored her.

The Q-tip laughed at something Paul said.

Sebastian got a clear look at her features and felt his insides turn to water.

“My daughter’s in there,” he said.

Faye yanked her binoculars away from her face and looked strangely at him.

“Grace Lewis is my daughter,” Sebastian said, and moved away, confronted with a level of fear and a whole host of other emotions no father should ever have to experience.