“Dial or say two at any time if you’re under duress.” A long pause ensued before his mother’s voice continued. “Devin. Sorry to keep this abrupt. I need you to see what I’ve been working on for the past twenty years. I’m not trying to make up for what I put all of you through. I can never do that. Take a look and decide for yourself what should be done with it. To continue this message, input the numeric digits corresponding to the year we took you to see your first Orioles game.”

He didn’t have to think about it, which was probably why his mother had picked it as a security question. They’d taken him the same year their new stadium, Camden Yards, had opened. But the answer contained the number two, which would trigger the duress protocol. She would have thought of that, right? Of course. He tapped “1993,” praying he’d hear her voice again. Mostly because he wanted to hear her voice again. He hadn’t made a decision one way or the other about her proposal.

“Smart kid. Here’s what I need you to do. First: Assume you’re currently under professional surveillance. Trust me on that. If I was even remotely close with my theory, they’ll be watching you closely. Second: Please keep your father and sister out of this. Entirely. Press two to continue.”

He sat down on the bed and pressed one, guessing she wouldn’t follow the same pattern.

“Sorry about that. Can’t be too careful. Here’s what I need you to do, and don’t write any of this down. Tomorrow morning, at a normal hour for you, place your phone in your safe and run a three-hour SDR. Check your vehicle for trackers before leaving. Physically disable any systems like OnStar. Leave your E-ZPass behind. You must go dark to and from this destination. No credit cards or anything traceable. I know what you’re thinking—Mom can’t even let go of this shit after she’s dead.”

He stifled a laugh. Mom’s sense of humor could be wicked, particularly when things were tough going. Dad had called it gallows humor. Devin had never really understood it until he’d started working for the Special Surveillance Group. The long, thankless days and nights on stakeout that yielded nothing. Exhaustively choreographed, hours-long street-surveillance gigs to track a target to an adult video store. They became the stand-up comedians of gallows humor.