All he knew for sure was that he was wishing he’d never come. Or at least that his pilgrimage had gone as it usually did—quietly, never running into the daughter of the man he came to honor. And apologize to her yet again for letting him down. He flexed his arm, realized then it was aching in that way that told him the weather was changing. Rain must be on the way out, for a while anyway.

“That’s crazy,” Amanda said.

“Maybe not,” Hayley said gently. “Your father was clearly onto something, something either so big or so sensitive that he kept it completely secret. Except from Adam, whom he obviously trusted.”

Amanda glanced at him and he looked away, not wanting to see resentment in her eyes again.

Quinn looked thoughtfully at Amanda. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess you haven’t personally angered anyone that much.”

“I...don’t think so.”

“Then we’re back to it being connected to your father.”

“But...why come after me after all this time?” She sounded bewildered.

“You called for help with an encrypted file,” Adam said softly.

Her gaze shot back to his face. “But I only called Dad’s friends.”

He let out an audible breath. He had no answer for that.

Quinn said, “There’s always Malachi.”

Adam gave him a startled look at the name of the shooter. “That was my first thought,” he said. “But why? He’s serving life already, and it’s not like he’s been coming up for parole and she’s stopped it.”

“True,” Quinn said. “Although that could also mean he’s got nothing to lose. But I’d think he’d be much more likely to come after you. For revenge.”

“Me?” Adam blinked. “I think you mean you. You’re the one who took him out.”

“But you’re the one whose testimony put him away.”

“That was nothing without the dashcam video. We were lucky it got good images of him.”

Quinn studied him for a moment. “So you get no credit for anything, is that it?”

Adam went cold. “Ask her,” he said, with a nod at Amanda. “She’ll tell you what I get credit for. Her father dying.”

He shoved back his chair, the pizza he’d eaten now a heavy lump in his stomach. He took three steps toward the door, his gaze already on where his jacket was on the rack. But something bumped him in the shins and he looked down to see Cutter, standing there and looking up at him reprovingly.

“Y’know, dog, I’ve had enough of that accusing look,” he muttered.

“And how often is it aimed at yourself in the mirror?”

It was Amanda’s voice, low and quiet, and the shock of that spun him around on his heel. “Not nearly often enough for you, I’m sure.”