Brooke let out a low moan, a sound unlike anything Myron had ever heard.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Baldwin.”

And then the tears came from both of them.

* * *

When Nancy hurried her son toward the door, Win stepped in her way.

“We need to know more,” Win said.

Patrick was sobbing uncontrollably.

“Not today,” Nancy said, pushing past Win. “Dr. Stanton warned me this might be too much for him. You know the truth now. I’m so, so sorry.”

She hurried outside. Win gestured to Myron, then moved toward Brooke. Myron quickly followed Nancy and Patrick. When the three of them were outside, Myron shouted, “How long have you known, Nancy?”

She spun toward him. “What?”

“How long have you known Rhys was dead?”

“What are you . . . Patrick just told us this morning.”

Myron rubbed his chin. “Odd timing.”

Patrick was still crying. The tears seemed real, and yet once again, something wasn’t adding up.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Nancy asked.

“Patrick,” Myron said, turning his attention to the distraught teen, “why were you in New York City yesterday with Tamryn Rogers?”

Nancy took that one. “What business is that of yours?”

“You knew?”

“He needed to get out,” Nancy said.

“Really? So you knew?”

“Of course.”

“How come he took a bus? How come you didn’t drive him?”

“That’s not your business.”

“He met up with Tamryn Rogers. I saw them together.”

“You were following my son?”

“Yep.”

Nancy put her hands on her hips, trying to look angry, but somehow it came across as more for show. “What gave you the right?” she snapped. “He went out by himself, he started talking to a girl his own age. Don’t make it more than what it is.”

“Hmm,” Myron said. He started walking toward them. “Your story matches hers.”

“So?”

“Even the outrage over me following them. Tamryn Rogers expressed it nearly the same way.”

“You were following my son. I have a right to be angry.”

“Is he your son?”

Patrick stopped crying, almost all at once.

“What are you talking about?”

Myron tried staring into the boy’s eyes, but again he kept his head down. “You both seem to be one step ahead of us, don’t you think, Patrick?”

He didn’t reply, didn’t look.

“I confront Tamryn Rogers. Suddenly your story matches hers. Win and I tell your dad you told Fat Gandhi that Rhys was dead. Suddenly you’ve recovered enough to tell Mrs. Moore about it.”

Nancy used her remote to unlock the car door. “Are you out of your mind?”

Myron bent at the waist, trying to force Patrick to look at him. “Are you really Patrick Moore?”

Without a warning, the boy reeled back his fist and threw it at Myron’s head. Myron was off-balance from leaning forward, but this was, after all, an inexperienced teenage fighter throwing a wild punch. All Myron had to do was duck down a bit, not much, not enough to stumble, and let the blow sail harmlessly over his head.