He was not the only one looking. This was what Dellray had felt since the envelope arrived—an unspoken, shaping pressure behind every decision. The photograph had not been sent in fear. It was not a puzzle to be solved. It was a distress signal from people who believed they were running out of time.
Dellray knew Warren Aldridge was seventy-eight. The fraud was buried 32 years deep, its participants dead or scattered, and his public legacy immaculate. He had paid the Calloways for nearly 30 years to keep it that way. Then he had decided to stop. Dellray turned that decision over and examined it from every angle. Why now?