“Wealthy people think they can buy lives because they’ve done it for generations,” he said.

“Is that why you’re helping me?” I asked. “Because you hate people like the Whitmores?”

“I know how they operate,” Nathan said, staring out the dark window. “They don’t see children as people. They see them as assets, or trophies, or leverage.”

He paused, his chest rising and falling slowly.

“When I was seven years old, a family just like the Whitmores decided my mother wasn’t suitable to raise me,” he said.

I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat.

“Nathan,” I began, reaching out toward him.

Before I could touch his arm, his phone on the table began to vibrate.

The screen lit up, showing an unknown number.

Nathan slid his finger across the screen and put it on speaker.

“Nathan,” Evelyn Whitmore’s voice came through, cold and perfectly composed. “I hope you and Emily are comfortable.”

My heart stopped.

“How did you get this number?” Nathan asked, his voice deadpan.

“Did you really think a cheap motel on the highway would hide you?” Evelyn laughed softly. “Look outside, Nathan.”