“Arthur,” Charles said gently. “We have to move you, but we need to know what they did to you.”

My father looked at Charles, a faint spark of recognition lighting up his tired eyes.

“Charles,” my father said. “You came.”

“I promised I would find the truth,” Charles replied, placing a hand on my shoulder.

My father let out a weak, rattling breath that sounded like dry leaves.

“Trevor was the one who brought me here,” my father said, his grip on my hand tightening surprisingly fast.

“He was the supervisor at the Crystal Oak back then.”

“He knew the restaurant was built over the old vault where the pension archives were stored.”

My eyes widened as the pieces of the puzzle began to slide into place.

“Trevor?” I asked. “The manager?”

My father nodded, his teeth clicking together slightly from the cold.

“He was Julian Bellamy’s inside man,” my father explained.

“When I discovered that the Bellamy Group was draining the retirement funds of every worker in Crystal Oak, I went to Trevor.”

“I thought he was my friend.”