'Hit the lights!' Gerard suddenly cried. 'Jesus-jesus, hit the lights!' He sounded frantic—hurt.

Thomas swept the walls with his hands. He could hear Sam call 'Danny? Danny?' from somewhere distant.

He stubbed his finger against the switch. The room leapt into existence.

'Uh, professor?' Gerard grunted. 'Could you wipe the mustard off your bud and help me out here?'

Stunned, Thomas numbly fingered his blazer pocket, pulled out Mia's roll of duct tape. He was still blinking against the overhead lights. The front room was exactly as he remembered: an expanse of beaten hardwood floor ringed round by high-backed sofas and dark-stained cabinets. Yellowing needlework decorated the pale walls.

A dead grandmother's room.

Gerard had Neil pinned face-first, hands yanked to the small between his shoulders, across a tangled throw-mat. Shoes and boots lay scattered about them. The room smelled of tracked mud and old insoles, of swelling wood and blankets left out-of-doors. Before he knew what he was doing, Thomas had kicked aside a heavy Timberland and was helping Gerard tape Neil's wrists.

'Logan!' the agent bellowed between deep breaths. 'Got him, Sam!'

'Ookaay!' echoed from some distant room. 'Securing the rest of the structure!' Thomas heard excitement in her voice—even relief. He felt none of it.

Gerard was hoisting him from the ground. Him. Neil.

Thomas hit him—hard, like pounding a mattress in a fury. Once, twice, three times. It was strange. Almost like watching himself from over his own shoulder. Only his fists felt real.

'Easy, professor,' Gerard said, staggering as Neil lurched. 'We need him in one piece. You need him.'

Neil looked up, his eyes glazed. A line of blood spilled from his nose to his chin.

'Goodbook,' he mumbled.

Thomas felt his face crumple, rubbed his eyes against the rough wool of his blazer sleeve. This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen! He was supposed to be strong, but instead he felt like a little boy again, buckling beneath his father's drunken anger. 'Frankie,' he blurted. 'Neil… How-how could you?'

Something ignited in Neil's eyes—that familiar predatory glint. 'What are you talking about? Frankie what?'

'Nora I can almost understand. But my boy, Neil. How could you fuck with my boy?'

'Frankie? No… No. I never touched—'

'Don't fucking lie! Not now. Not in this. Don't. Fucking. Lie!'

His voice pealed through the room.

Neil spit blood onto the hardwood floor. 'Goodbook, listen. I never touched Frankie. Why—'

Thomas punched him again, screeching, 'Liar!'

'He's not your boy!' Neil roared. 'Do you hear me? He's my fucking son! Mine! Why would I use my own son?'