He quickly flagged down a taxi to take him and his father to the hotel. He leaned against the back seat, staring out the window as the cab negotiated the annoying one-way streets of downtown Halifax.

He was so angry, so grief-stricken, so exhausted, so confused by the turn his life had taken that he was numb. He could not think. He could absorb no more.

And then his phone chimed with a text message.

Thinking it might be Randall Barrett, he had checked it.

And almost passed out from shock.

The text message was as targeted and explosive as a grenade. But it wasn’t the words of the sender that caused his heart to hammer. It was his words. The words of a private email, cut and pasted from his secret email account.

Along with a demand for half a million dollars.

His thoughts collided into one another. Was the blackmailer nuts? Where did he think he’d get that money? He was on a politician’s salary for God’s sake. And a son of working class immigrants. There was no inheritance to fall back on when the going got tough.

But most frighteningly: Where did the blackmailer get access to his most secret email?

A thought chilled him. Had the blackmailer stolen his laptop while he was at the police station?

And was he the suspect who got away last night?

Had he and Leah broken into his parents’ house to steal his laptop?

Harry’s pulse raced, as if the speed of his heart could urge the taxi to drive more quickly to the hotel. But the downtown was bogged with construction, closed-off lanes, and streams of pedestrians.

Once they arrived at the hotel, Harry pushed his father through the throng of journalists who hovered around the entry door.

“Could we have a statement, Mr. Owen?”

“What are the police findings?”

“What is the status of the suspects?”

The questions slammed into him. All he wanted to do was reach the privacy of his room. And check to see if his laptop was still there.

He raised his voice. “We have no statement at this time. Please respect our privacy. We are a family in mourning.”

His father shielded his eyes from the blinding flash of the cameras. Harry murmured, “Almost at the elevator, Dad.”

They stood, waiting for the elevator, ignoring the television cameras, smartphone cameras, and journalists who hoped to get one last word. But he would say nothing, would never admit to the fear that grew within him until he felt as if his insides were an abyss and his outer self was crumbling in slow motion into it.

Finally, the elevator arrived and delivered them to the penthouse floor of the hotel.

“Dad, why don’t you have a rest?” Harry unlocked his father’s door.

“I’m not tired,” his father said. He had a frantic, wired look in his eyes.