I pushed the door open with my boot, my weapon raised.

Dr. Owen Vale stood by a heavy mahogany desk, stuffing manila folders into a black leather briefcase.

He froze, a stack of medical records slipping from his fingers.

His face turned the color of ash.

“Daniel,” he whispered, his eyes darting to my gun.

Papers scattered across the Persian rug like dry leaves.

“Put your hands where I can see them, Doctor,” Sophia said, stepping into the room.

Vale looked at her badge-less belt, then back at my weapon.

“You have no authority here,” Vale said, his voice trembling.

“I don’t need authority,” I said.

I stepped forward and pulled the photograph from my jacket pocket, slamming it onto the desk.

It was the photo Emily had hidden in her old sewing box.

It showed Vale meeting with my mother, Margaret, near the docks on the rainy night Emily died.

“Explain this,” I said.

Vale glanced at the photo, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“It was just a medical consultation,” he said.

“Liar,” I said, stepping closer and pressing the cold muzzle of my gun against his temple.