Rebecca looked at Dad.
“There’s more.”
She placed a folder on the table.
“Marcus’s uncle is Lieutenant Raymond Reed.”
I looked up.
“A cop?”
“Internal Affairs.”
Dad opened the folder.
Raymond Reed had served twenty-two years.
No major disciplinary history.
Two commendations.
One line struck me.
Currently on medical leave.
“For what?” Dad asked.
Rebecca answered quietly.
“Car accident.”
My skin prickled.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Cause?”
“Brake failure.”
Dad looked toward the screen.
Marcus.
The documents.
The warning text.
A missing student.
An uncle in Internal Affairs whose brakes failed.
My father exhaled slowly.
Then one of the analysts said, “Sir, there’s one more issue.”
“What?”
“Your son’s stop.”
My father’s eyes moved to him.
The analyst hesitated.
“The patrol assignment logs show Mercer was not scheduled for Brookfield Park.”
Dad stepped closer.
“Where was he scheduled?”
“Four miles away.”
“Why did he leave?”
“No explanation entered.”
“GPS?”
The analyst brought up a map.
A red line traced Mercer’s cruiser.
At 9:56, he left his assigned sector.
At 10:04, he drove directly toward Brookfield Park.
He arrived at 10:15.
Two minutes before he approached me.
Dad stared.
“Was he dispatched?”
“No.”
“Phone records?”
“Pending warrant.”
Dad shook his head.
“No warrant through local. Federal predicate first.”
The analyst nodded.
I looked at him.
“You think someone called him.”
Dad did not answer.
Rebecca did.
“We think someone may have.”
The door opened.
An agent entered.
He whispered something to Rebecca.
She went still.
“What?” Dad asked.
She looked at me.
Then at him.
“They found Marcus.”
My heart stopped.
Dad’s voice remained steady.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
I exhaled.
“Where?”
Rebecca’s expression made the relief disappear.
“In federal custody.”
Dad frowned.
“Whose?”
She looked directly at him.
“Ours.”
Marcus Reed had not been kidnapped.
He had been hiding.
Inside an FBI safe location.
That made no sense.
Not to me.
Not to Rebecca.
And, judging by the silence that followed, not to my father.
“Who authorized protective custody?” Dad asked.
Rebecca handed him a single sheet.
He read the name.
Then read it again.
His face emptied.
I stood.
“What?”
Dad looked toward the analysts.
“Clear the room.”
Nobody moved.
“Now.”
They left.
Rebecca closed the door.
I stepped closer.
“Dad.”
He placed the paper face down.
“What is it?”
He looked at me.
“The authorization came from Deputy Director Samuel Vale.”
Even I knew that name.
Samuel Vale had been with the Bureau for nearly thirty years.
He had testified before Congress.
He had appeared beside presidents.
He had been one of my father’s mentors.
He had come to our house for Thanksgiving twice when I was younger.
I remembered him teaching me to throw a football badly in our backyard.
“Uncle Sam?” I said.
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“Don’t call him that here.”
“Why would he hide Marcus?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
Rebecca spoke carefully.
“Nathan, you need to consider the possibility that this is compartmented.”
“Then he should have informed me the moment my son became involved.”
“Maybe he couldn’t.”
Dad looked at her.
“My son was assaulted during an event connected to a source your deputy director placed into federal protection.”
“I know.”
“No. You understand the sentence. I’m asking whether you understand the problem.”
Rebecca looked away.
I had seen my father angry before.
I had never seen him betrayed.
That was different.
Anger had heat.
Betrayal had absence.
Before anyone could say more, Dad’s secured phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
Samuel Vale.
He answered.
“Sir.”
I could not hear the other side.
Dad listened.
His face hardened.
“No.”
Pause.
“No, I’m not discussing this without counsel present.”
Another pause.
“My son became a target.”
Longer silence.
Then Dad said something I had never heard him say to a superior.
“You should have told me.”
He listened again.
His eyes changed.
“What?”
Rebecca stepped closer.
Dad turned away from us.
“When?”
Silence.
“Send it.”
He ended the call.