“No,” I said as I remembered the money hidden in the cookie tin. Could Jack have won it playing poker? Had he been gambling when he’d told me he was working late? How much more didn’t I know about him?

“No,” I said again, slowly shaking my head. “Not that I’m aware of. Why? Who’s Jason Whitmarsh?”

Heron leaned in and smiled but said nothing as she continued to observe me. When I thought I couldn’t take the silence any longer, she said, “Can you tell us about Dominic Martel?”

The air left my lungs as my body seemed to fold into itself, and I knew there was zero sense insisting I didn’t know who they were talking about. As much as I’d tried to run from my past, hide from it, forget about it, here it was, my dirtiest secret ready to be exposed.

“It was a long time ago,” I said. “And I really can’t see how it’s relevant.”

“Humor us.” Stevens sat back, arms crossed, digging in for the long run. Heron nodded at me, sending a polite but firm message they weren’t going anywhere until I explained what they probably already knew. If I said nothing, they’d continue focusing on me, which meant they weren’t doing anything to find Jack. If I refused to cooperate, their wasted time was my fault.

“I was eighteen,” I said, “and I was broke because I’d moved out from home.”

Moved out was the polite way of saying unceremoniously kicked out. It happened three months after I’d declared I still had no intention of following in my parents’ medical or banking footsteps but wanted to pursue an art degree instead. After spending a number of weeks trying to convince me otherwise, my parents sat me down at the dining table.

“An art degree won’t pay the bills,” my mother said, and Dad grunted his agreement. “We feel you should experience what not having any money is like as soon as possible. You’ve been privileged, sheltered—”

“Didn’t both of you have trust funds?” I said, folding my arms over my chest.

“That’s neither here nor there,” Dad said. “We’re prepared to pay for your education as long as you pursue something worthwhile—”

“You mean something you approve of.”

“—but if you insist on an art degree, you need to finance it yourself.”

“Basically, if I don’t do your bidding, I’m on my own.”

“Correct.” My mother gave me a curt nod and shot my father a victorious look.