Chick called out, “Patrick?”

Myron heard a door open, then close. Hunter and Lionel rushed up the stairs. Myron stayed right behind them, ready to intervene further if he needed to. Brooke and Nancy were behind him. Everyone, except Myron, was shouting. When they got to the top of the stairs, Chick was in front of the final door.

“No!” Hunter shouted. He dove toward Chick, but he was too late.

Chick opened the door. When he looked inside, he froze.

Myron was a lot bigger and stronger than Lionel. It didn’t take much to block him out so Myron could get to the door first. When he got there, he followed Chick’s gaze to the far corner of the bedroom.

There, huddled into the corner as though he was trying to burrow into the wood, was Patrick Moore.

The room had clearly not been changed in the past decade. It was the room of a six-year-old. The bed was shaped like a race car. There was a poster for an old superhero movie on one wall. Three modest-sized sports trophies sat on one shelf. His name was spelled out in big wooden letters above his closet. The wallpaper was a lively blue. The carpet was designed to look like a basketball key.

Patrick wore flannel pajamas. There were headphones on the floor in front of him, but right now, he had his hands covering his ears. His eyes were shut. His knees were up against his chest, and he rocked back and forth.

He started muttering, “Please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me,” as though it were a mantra.

Nancy Moore pushed past Myron and ran across the room. She dropped to her knees and took her son into her arms. He buried his face in her shoulder. Nancy turned toward the door with a baleful look. Hunter stepped into the room behind her. Lionel did the same. The three of them were lined up now, almost in a formation, to protect the crying teen.

“We tried to explain it to you nicely,” Hunter said. “Now I want you to get out of our house.”

Chapter 16

I love Rome.

I always stay in the Excelsior hotel’s Villa La Cupola, a suite that takes up the top two stories of this former palace. I like the outdoor sundeck overlooking the Via Veneto. I like the frescoes on the dome, painted in such a way as to match the horizon out the window. I like the private theater, the sauna, the steam bath, the Jacuzzi.

Who wouldn’t?

Back in the day, Vincenzo the concierge knew and handled my, shall we say, entertainment likings. It would be his task to have what they politely referred to as a “lady of the evening” or “courtesan” awaiting my arrival. Sometimes two. On rare occasions, three. The Villa La Cupola suite had six bedrooms. This made it easy for whatever company was hired to spend the night, if she so desired, but not with me. This was my way. This was how I preferred it.