The photograph showed Michael standing beside a woman Bear assumed was Sarah. They were outside a small building, perhaps a medical office. Michael's hair had thinned, and gray had spread through his beard. A faint scar ran across his forehead.
He looked older than Bear remembered.
He also looked alive.
A dark SUV stood in the background.
Bear flipped the photograph over.
A date had been written on the back.
Eleven days earlier.
His fingers tightened around the paper.
“Where was this taken?”
Lily shook her head.
“Mom didn't tell me.”
“Did you see your dad that day?”
“Yes.”
Bear looked up.
“When?”
“Three nights ago.”
His heartbeat quickened.
“Three nights ago?”
Lily nodded.
“Was he at your house?”
“No. We went somewhere.”
“Where?”
“A building with a blue door.”
Bear waited.
“Did he tell you why he was there?”
“He said he had to see somebody.”
“Did he say who?”
Lily shook her head.
“Was he alone?”
She thought for a moment.
“No. Mom was with him.”
Bear stared at the photograph.
Eleven days earlier, Michael had been alive.
Three nights earlier, he had been close enough to see his daughter.
And Bear had spent six years believing there was no possibility of ever seeing him again.
Bear turned the photograph over once more.
Beneath the date, a second message had been written in blue ink.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Michael had always written in sharp, blocky capital letters. Even as a child, he had formed his letters as though he were carving them into wood.
BEAR — DON'T TRUST THE DEATH CERTIFICATE.
Bear read the sentence several times.
He looked toward the doorway.
Doc was standing there.
“What's wrong?” Doc asked.
Bear folded the photograph and slipped it into his vest pocket.
“Nothing.”
Doc looked at him carefully.
“That's not the face of a man who thinks nothing is wrong.”
Bear held his gaze.
“Lily's mother is missing. Her father may be alive. Somebody has been following them, and we have a note telling me not to trust a death certificate.”
Doc went very still.
Only for a second.
But Bear saw it.
He had spent decades reading faces, and Doc's expression had changed in a way that couldn't be explained by ordinary concern.
“Whose death certificate?” Doc asked.
Bear did not answer immediately.
He watched his friend.
Then he said, “My brother's.”
Doc lowered his eyes.
A strange silence settled between them.
Bear felt the first real crack appear in the trust he had carried for seventeen years.
“Doc?”
The older rider looked up.
“Grant, there's something you need to understand about medical records.”
Bear hated the way he had begun using his full name.
“Tell me.”
“Sometimes records are incomplete. Sometimes hospitals make mistakes. Sometimes a death certificate is issued based on information that later turns out to be incorrect.”
“Are you saying that's what happened?”
Doc hesitated.
“I'm saying you shouldn't jump to conclusions.”
Bear leaned forward.
“Six years ago, you told me not to jump to conclusions. You said the paperwork was clear. You told me that questioning it would only make the grieving harder.”
Doc's expression tightened.
“I was trying to help you.”
“Were you?”
The question hung in the air.
Doc stared at him.
For a moment, Bear thought his friend might become angry.
Instead, Doc looked tired.
“Grant, I don't know what you're dealing with. But I can tell you this: if Michael is alive, then someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to keep him hidden.”
Bear's eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
Doc glanced at Lily.
“Not here.”
Bear felt his pulse quicken.
“Why not here?”
“Because the walls have ears.”
It was an old expression, but Doc did not say it jokingly.
He looked genuinely afraid.
Bear rose slowly.
“Tell me what you know.”
Doc shook his head.
“Not until I know who's listening.”
He turned and walked back into the hallway.
Bear watched him leave.
For the first time in seventeen years, he wondered whether his oldest friend had been protecting him—or protecting a secret from him.
The call from Mason came twelve minutes later.
He returned to the room with his phone in his hand and an expression that made Bear stand immediately.
“The detective is on his way,” Mason said. “He wants us to keep Lily somewhere safe until he arrives.”
“Good.”
“There's something else.”
Bear waited.
“The school confirmed she hasn't attended classes for four days.”
Bear looked at Lily.
She was sitting quietly, drawing something in her notebook.
“Why?”
Mason lowered his voice.
“Her mother called the school on Monday and said Lily was sick. She called again on Tuesday. After that, nobody heard from her.”
Bear felt anger rise inside him, but he forced himself to keep it under control.
Four days.
A child had been missing from school for four days, and nobody had checked whether she was safe.
He thought of Lily walking alone through the city, dragging her walker along the pavement, stopping at a pharmacy because her legs hurt.
He thought of her asking twelve strangers for help.
Then he thought of the man in the black SUV.
“Did the school report her absence?”
“They said they followed their attendance procedures.”
“Which means?”
“Letters and phone calls.”
Bear shook his head.
“Unbelievable.”
Mason looked through the window.
“There's another thing. The detective asked whether we had the license plate of the SUV.”
“We don't.”
“Cole and I were watching the road. We didn't see it at first.”
Bear took out the newer photograph and showed Mason the dark vehicle in the background.
“Can you get a better look at this?”
Mason examined the image.
The SUV was partly obscured by a tree, but the front plate was visible enough to suggest a few characters.
“I'll send it to Cole. He knows somebody who works with vehicle records.”
“Tell him not to do anything illegal.”
Mason gave him a look.
“Do you think I don't know that?”
“I think you enjoy shortcuts.”
“Only when they save time.”
Bear almost smiled.
Then he remembered Lily.
He turned toward her.
“Lily, do you know what kind of car the man drove today?”
She nodded.
“A black SUV.”
“Was it the same one in the photograph?”
She looked at the picture.
Then her face became pale.
“Yes.”
Bear moved closer.
“Are you sure?”
Lily nodded again.