Donatti said, “I’m going upstairs. I reek like a garbage dump. Landon, you watch the doors. Petry, you watch the girl. No one goes in those doors until I come back. And no one, and I mean no one, touches the girl without my say-so. Anyone disputes those orders, shoot first and ask questions later. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

The girl raised her hand.

“What?” Donatti said.

“I have to use the toilet.”

It probably had been eight hours since she’d taken a piss. He picked up Terry’s purse. “C’mon … this way.” He took her to the elevator, and they rode it up to the dark fourth floor. Donatti turned on the lights, then strode down the hall to his office door. He suddenly realized that the girl was twenty paces behind. He waited for her to catch up, and then he opened the door and turned on the lights. He pointed to a door. “In there.”

She limped inside and shut the door. He looked around. This was one of his smaller offices. Desk, chair, and a closet. He kept very few files here—just on the men who had serious health conditions. He monitored them like he monitored everything. He certainly didn’t want any of his clients dying on the premises.

Bad for business.

He put his ex-wife’s purse on the desktop and took out a fresh ensemble, while waiting for the girl to get out so he could shower. He could hear her crying from behind the door.

The bastard child.

Despite himself, he felt bad for her.

The girl looked like Terry dipped in caramel. The same oval face, lovely cheekbones, and bee-stung lips. Her hair was long like Terry’s but darker in color, as were her eyes. They also had similar voices. It made it easier for him to tolerate her. If he took his imagination to the limit, he could almost pretend she was his and her coloring came from a black Irish ancestor. Of course, she wasn’t his. She had a father, and he had no desire to become a substitute. Although he’d protect Gabe with his life, one kid had always been one too many.

Finally, she came out, her face freshly washed. “Thank you.”

“Wait here.” Donatti took his change of clothes and went inside the bathroom. A quick shower and clean garments made him feel better. He came back into the office, sat at his desk, and fished through Terry’s purse. He took out four phones—three burners, including a Xiaomi phone, whatever that was, and a Samsung. To the girl, who was still standing, he said, “Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

She obeyed. “Sorry.”

He began to scroll down one of the burners, kept the one that Terry had used most. “Is this your phone?” He showed her the Xiaomi.

“Yes.”

“What’s your code?”

“My birthday.”