“I did no such thing.” Phillip Clarke rose from his chair. His face had turned an unbecoming shade of puce as he slapped his hand on his desk. He was doing a pretty credible imitation of a man who had been falsely accused—she’d give him that. However, there was no way she was going to remain sitting as if she were a misbehaving child in the principal’s office. She was a woman grown, powerful in her own right. Sarah shot out of her seat, stepped forward, slammed her hands on the opposing side of his desk, and leaned toward him, teeth bared. Part of her hoping, praying that he would prove her wrong.

“Then kindly explain to me how Kevin magically managed to appear in the tiny town of Brimfield, Illinois, population eight hundred and thirty-four? Not exactly a thriving metropolis. Not exactly a place that Kevin would visit.” Her words were spoken clearly and succinctly, smashing into him like a volley of well-placed blows. “And yet there he was, staked out in front of the damned post office where I was expecting to receive a package from you.”

Phillip Clarke stared at her as if she’d produced a ghost. “He was . . . waiting for you?” Sarah nodded, a bitter taste in her mouth. “But how? He tracked you to Brimfield, Illinois?” And then a pained expression crossed his face. “Sweet Mary, mother of God,” he murmured as he sank back into his chair. His breathing had become irregular pants, as if he were suddenly having difficulty catching his breath. His fist rose and pressed against his chest. He didn’t look good.

“Mr. Clarke . . . ?” His head wobbled back and forth on his skinny stalk of a neck. The movement didn’t succeed in shaking any more words out. There was a slight sheen of sweat glistening on the top of his head, his forehead, and dotting his upper lip. Shit. Is he having a heart attack? She rounded the desk. “Uncle Phillip, are you all right?” She could see Mick in her periphery crossing to the water cooler as she placed her fingers against the old man’s carotid artery. His pulse was erratic. His skin felt clammy and smelled of old age, sweat, and cologne.

“Vicki . . .” Phillip Clarke rasped as if all the moisture had vanished from his mouth and throat. “Had to be her.” His eyes were like a drowning man’s, tormented, as if he had received a fatal blow. “She must have . . . told him. She’s the only other person who had knowledge . . . of your whereabouts . . .” His eyes fluttered shut. “I’m sorry. So very . . . sorry.”