“He won’t be coming. You’ll be dealing with me. But if you and the boy want to use the bathroom, it’s over there.” He pointed to the walls jutting out from the corner. “There’s no toilet paper, so…”

Susan rolled Davie across the open space, anxious to have a chance to think without being under O’Hara’s scrutiny. They entered the bathroom and discovered there was no ceiling, just the eight-foot-high partitions shielding a sink and toilet from view. She cringed at the disgusting sight of dirty porcelain and a broken toilet seat. Davie shook his head, refusing to step out of the chair.

“Come on,” she whispered, “you have to try. We might be here a while and you know you’ll get uncomfortable. You go first, then I’ll go.” She turned her head to give the youngster some privacy and noticed there was no lock on the inside of the door. If they took too long, she had no doubt the agent wouldn’t hesitate to enter.

When they’d finished, Susan rolled Davie back to the desks. O’Hara had rearranged the chairs so that one faced an open laptop.

“You sit here, Mrs. Finch.” O’Hara pointed to the chair at the desk. “Leave your son where he’s out of the way.”

Davie clung to his mother’s arm.

“Out of the way of what?”

O’Hara took a deep breath. “We know what your husband did. We have his computer, and we have the wallets. He broke the law, but you can set things right and everyone will be happy. No charges will be pressed and your husband’s reputation and good name preserved.”

“Wallets? I don’t know what wallets you’re talking about. Johnny only had one.”

“I’m talking about virtual wallets.” He tapped the computer screen. “The ones your husband used to steal millions of dollars from the agency. The ones you accessed on a duplicate computer.”

Susan stared at the laptop. It looked like Johnny’s, but they all looked alike.

“Daddy’s computer.” Davie rolled his wheelchair toward the desk. “Daddy’s computer.”

O’Hara grabbed him roughly by the upper arm. The boy squealed and tried to pull away.

“Leave him alone,” Susan Finch shouted. “You’ll break his arm.” She started forward, ready to claw her son free.

With one swift motion, O’Hara yanked his pistol from its shoulder holster with one hand while lifting the boy out of the chair with the other. He pressed the muzzle against Davie’s temple. The child froze, fear disintegrating into a catatonic paralysis.

“You’re going to give me the key to that money or breaking his arm will be the least of your worries.”

O’Hara tightened his grip, and Davie’s arm went limp, the unheeded Medic Alert bracelet dangling from his wrist.