Nichols settled back in his chair. “A minor glitch.”

“You saw it on the Grid?”

“Of course. I don’t miss anything, Cleary. Especially not now.”

“All right. Don’t get bigheaded on me. Or should I say silicon-headed? I’ll be catching up to you shortly.”

“When is your transplant scheduled? Next week?”

Cleary downed some of his bourbon. “Correct. And none too soon. In the meantime have you spoken with the congresswoman?”

“Yes.”

“Is she going to be a problem with this cousin of hers being here?”

“No.”

“How much of a threat do you think the New Guinea woman might be?”

“If she returns home quickly, none. If not…”

Nichols glanced around the room and instinctively leaned forward, lowering his voice. “If she finds out about Ray, that would be a problem. A huge problem. Damien, I’m going to leave it in your hands to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“And how far would you like me to go to ensure that?”

“Track her, assess her, redirect her. Keep her in the dark.”

“And if that doesn’t work? What’s more important, this one woman or the project?”

Nichols let out a long sigh. “I hope never to face that decision. I do know this: we can’t let Abigail Caldwell jeopardize everything we’ve worked toward for twenty years.”

Since I was the only heir, handling my father’s will was a breeze. Disposing of all his possessions was another matter. My father was both tidy and sentimental, meaning he had amassed a substantial collection of personal treasures, all meticulously organized. A box of photographs he’d inherited from his parents. Two boxes of his science fair trophies and ribbons. Two boxes of my scribblings from elementary school. Wading through the rest of it at his place was too large a task. I had it shipped to Dallas, where, although it took over my living room, I could rummage through everything at a reasonable pace.

I had whittled the task down to three boxes. I sat on the floor and spent twenty minutes on the first, sorting through written reports—paper reports—from his college days. I reached for the second box and opened it. I stared at the object sitting on top of a pile of electrical cords. It was the same type of machine I had borrowed from the university to read the message sent to my father.

“Alistair, visual please.”

Alistair appeared.

“Are my father’s personal purchase records still available in his system?”

“Yes, they are.”

“How far back do they go?”

“The archives go back ten years.”

That probably wasn’t far enough for a device like this, but it was worth a shot.

“Can you tell me when he purchased this item?” I read him the product name and number.

Momentarily, Alistair responded. “That item was purchased on April 17.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Which year, Alistair?”

“This year, Creighton.”