Faith figured Gerald Caterino was the only person who could fill in the details. If he agreed to talk to them. “You still haven’t connected this to Brad Stephens.”

“Easy. Frank and Lena aren’t going to help. So, I start looking for weak points on the Grant County force. Someone who was there when it happened. Someone who isn’t invested in being right. Brad Stephens is my only choice.”

Faith didn’t buy it. “You’re saying he would turn on Jeffrey?”

“Never, but he would flip on Lena like a pancake.”

“I thought Brad and Lena were partners?”

“They were,” Will said. “But he’s a Dudley-Do-Right.”

Faith got his meaning. Brad saw things in black and white, which could make you a good cop, but not necessarily a good partner. No one wanted to work with a tattletale.

Will said, “We need to talk to Brad.”

“Put it on the list behind talking to every detective, coroner and next of kin involved in every case from Daryl Nesbitt’s articles.”

Will tipped the bag of Bugles into his mouth and finished the last of the crumbs. Then he took a handful of Jolly Ranchers out of his pocket for dessert and Faith couldn’t watch anymore.

The satnav said to take a right.

Faith drove through an older residential area. Tall dogwoods lined the streets. Large shrubs and ornamental trees filled the front yards. The design reminded Faith of her own in-town neighborhood, where hundreds of split-level ranch-style houses had been built for returning World War II veterans. Hers was one of the few remaining homes that hadn’t been Frankensteined into a McMansion. Faith’s government salary barely covered a broken water heater. If not for her grandmother leaving her the house, she would’ve been forced to live with her mother. Neither one of them would’ve made it out alive.

She slowed down to read the mailbox numbers. “We’re looking for 8472.”

“There.” Will pointed across the street.

Gerald Caterino lived in a fairly modest two-story brick Colonial. The lawn was neatly trimmed zoysia that had yet to go dormant from the change in season. Flowers Faith could not name spilled from terracotta pots. Pavers lined the crushed stone driveway. She pulled in front of a closed wrought-iron gate that blocked the motor court. She saw a kid playing with a basketball on the other side. He looked around eight or nine years old. Faith remembered Caterino’s bio from his company website. She assumed this was the son that Caterino liked to read with.

“Up top.” Will nodded toward a security camera.

Faith scanned the front of the house. There were two cameras covering each corner.

Will said, “That’s not something you get on Amazon.”

Faith agreed. They looked professional, what you’d find in a bank.

The gate took on a different meaning. Faith had lived in Atlanta all of her life. She had seen the gate as just another gate. She reminded herself they were in Milledgeville, where the annual murder rate was zero and every other house on this bucolic, tree-lined street probably had unlocked front doors.

She said, “His daughter was brutally attacked eight years ago.”

“He blames us for what happened after.”

“Not us personally. He blames Grant County.”

Will didn’t respond, but then he didn’t have to. Gerald Caterino’s online activity made it clear that he didn’t see the difference.

Faith allotted herself exactly two seconds to think about the gunshot wound that had been carefully placed between Jeffrey Tolliver’s eyes.

She asked, “Ready?”

Will got out of the car.

Faith found her purse in the backseat. She joined Will at the gate. His elbows rested along the top. He watched the kid chunk the ball toward the basket. It missed by a mile, but the boy still looked to Will for approval.

“Wow, that was so close.” Will gave Faith a slight nod toward the back of the house. “Can you do that again?”

The kid happily chased after the bouncing ball.

Faith had to go up on her tiptoes so she could see the house. There was a screened porch off the back. The shadows provided cover for the man sitting at the table. He leaned forward into the sunlight. What was left of his dark hair was streaked gray. His push-broom mustache was neatly trimmed. His wire-rimmed glasses were on top of his head.

“What do you want?” Gerald Caterino’s angry tone made the hairs go up on the back of Faith’s neck.

“Mr. Caterino.” She already had her ID ready. She held it up over the gate. “I’m Special Agent Mitchell. This is Special Agent Trent. We’re with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. We wondered if we could talk to you.”

He remained seated at the table, telling the kid, “Heath, go check on your sister.”

Heath let the basketball bounce away as he darted inside.

Faith heard a click, then the gate slowly opened.

She made herself go first, walking across the driveway, open to anything that might come. The back yard was as huge as it was well-protected. She saw a six-feet-tall chain-link fence around the perimeter. More cameras were mounted under the eaves. A wrought-iron fence that matched the gate circled a beautiful swimming pool. A lift chair was mounted to the stone deck. The screened porch was accessed via a ramp instead of steps. There was a large wheelchair van parked in the garage alongside a pick-up truck with landscaping tools in the back.

The screened door was made of wrought iron that matched the rest. Odd, since the screen could be easily sliced apart, but Faith wasn’t here to do a security evaluation. Heath hadn’t closed the door all the way. There was no way in hell she was going to step foot on that porch without being invited.

The security cameras. The gate. The tall fence. The targets on the Grant County mugshots. The bullet wound in Jeffrey Tolliver’s head.

Rebecca Caterino had been attacked almost a decade ago. That was a lot of time to be on high alert. Faith had seen what grief could do to a family, particularly fathers. For all the security, Gerald hadn’t stood up to inspect their IDs before opening the gate. The man’s online presence was riddled with anti-law enforcement propaganda. She wondered if he wasn’t standing up because he had a gun taped to the underside of the table. Then she wondered if she was being paranoid. Then she reminded herself that paranoia was the thing that got her home safe to her baby girl every day.

She realized they were already at a stand-off. “Mr. Caterino, I need your verbal authorization to enter your residence.”

His beefy arms were crossed over his chest. He offered a curt nod. “Granted.”

Will reached ahead of her to open the door. Faith kept her purse close to her side. Her bad vibe had crested into a tsunami of red flags. Everything about Gerald Caterino felt charged, ready to explode. He was sitting on the edge of his chair. His arms were still crossed. His laptop was closed. Timecards were stacked beside it. He was wearing black cargo shorts and a black polo shirt. Bright white skin showed between the V of the unbuttoned collar. He had a landscaper’s tan that stopped with his work shirt.

Faith glanced around. There was another camera, a bubble-type, mounted on the ceiling by the kitchen door. The porch was wide and narrow. The table Caterino was sitting at had three chairs and an opening for a wheelchair.

Faith offered her credentials. Several seconds passed before he took them. He put on his glasses. He studied the ID, comparing the photo to Faith. Will handed over his wallet and received the same scrutiny.

Caterino asked, “Why are you here?”

Faith shifted on her feet. He hadn’t told them to sit down. “Daryl Nesbitt.”

Caterino’s body grew exponentially more tense. Instead of volunteering that he’d been sending Nesbitt articles for the last five years, he looked out at the back yard. Sunlight bounced off the surface of the pool, turning it into a mirror. “What’s he trying to get this time?”

“Ultimately, we think he wants to be moved to a lower security facility.”

Caterino nodded, as if that made sense. And it probably did. The last time Nesbitt had made a deal, he’d been transferred from maximum. The move had probably cost Caterino around one hundred grand in legal fees.

Faith said, “Mr. Cateri—”

“My daughter was left out in those woods for half an hour before somebody realized she was alive.” He looked at Faith, then Will. “Do you know what that thirty minutes would’ve meant to her recovery? To her life?”

Faith didn’t think that question could ever be answered, but it was clearly something he was holding on to.

“Thirty minutes,” Caterino said. “My little girl was paralyzed, traumatized, unable to speak or even blink, and not one of those filthy, fucking cops thought to check to see if she was still alive. To even touch her face or hold her hand. If that pediatrician hadn’t just wandered by …”

Faith tried to keep her tone light as a contrast to the bitterness in his voice. “What else did Brad Stephens tell you about that day?”