Sarah took her mother’s face in both hands.
“Tell me later. Right now, I need you to move.”
Something shifted in Diana’s eyes. The fear didn’t leave, but something moved in alongside it. Something that had been waiting a long time to be useful.
“I can move,” she said.
They ran.
Four men in dark jackets hit the hallway behind them as Hank shoved open the north stairwell door. One flight. Two.
The rooftop door was unlocked. Cold air hit them like a wall.
The gap to the next roof was eight feet.
“I can’t,” Diana said.
“You can,” Hank said, “because those men are not coming up here to talk.”
The rooftop door shuddered behind them.
Sarah grabbed her mother’s hand.
“Together. On three.”
They ran. They jumped.
For one terrible, stretched second, Sarah was suspended over nothing. Then her feet hit gravel, and her momentum carried her into a roll that left her palms bleeding.
Diana landed hard, the impact jarring her ankle, but adrenaline overruled the pain. Hank caught her arm, and they were already moving toward the fire escape.
The iron stairs rang like a bell with every step.
By the time they hit the alley, Sarah could hear sirens somewhere in the distance. Hank’s gray truck was where he said it would be.
He had it running before Sarah’s door closed.
They pulled into traffic.
Diana pressed against the window, eyes closed, lips moving in something that might have been a prayer.
Sarah sat with the envelope in her lap and her bleeding palms and found something solid to stand on. Anger, mostly. Clean and cold and clarifying.
“Waterfront Park,” she said. “That’s where we’re going.”
“That’s exactly where Cutter will expect us to go,” Hank said.
“Good,” Sarah said. “Let him.”
Hank held her eyes in the mirror for a long moment.
Then he said, “If we’re doing this, we do it right.”
He pulled his phone from his vest pocket and handed it to her. Screen facing out.
“Everything that happens from the moment you sit on that bench goes live to Christine Marsh at the federal prosecutor’s office. She’s been waiting three years for something she could use. Today, she gets it.”
“You already called her while you were getting my mother off the roof?”
He paused.
“Cutter will show up. He won’t be able to help himself. He spent twenty-four years waiting for this box, and every word he says goes straight to federal record.”
“And if he doesn’t talk?”
“He’ll talk,” Hank said simply. “Men like Dale Cutter always talk when they think they’ve already won.”
He nodded once and drove.
Waterfront Park at 6:00 in the morning belonged to joggers and dog walkers. Not today.
Hank coasted the truck to the curb two blocks out. The park stretched ahead in gray February light. Bare trees, wet gravel paths, the Willamette running dark beyond the railing.
“He’s already here,” Hank said.
“How do you know?”
“Because I would be.”
His eyes moved across the tree line, methodical.
“East side. Two men by the maintenance shed. One near the north entrance pretending to stretch. And at least one more I can’t place, which means he’s good, which means he’s the one to worry about.”
“The bench,” Sarah said. “How far?”